by Linda Kage
Nice.
I smiled through clenched teeth at his parents as if everything was bien, even though I wanted to strangle their brat who was currently singing about Bob the Builder at the top of his lungs and tossing his tortilla chips onto his seat so he could march them into crumbs as they studied their menus, oblivious. Gritting back my irritation, I took their order and escaped before I unloaded my frustrations of the day onto them.
Six hours later, I trudged into my apartment and flopped onto the couch, where I moaned out my misery and slapped my hands over my face.
This—this—was my life. And it looked as if it was going to remain my pathetic existence for the next long while. No drumming position. No new band membership. Nothing but serving asshole customers who wrote LOL on my tip line instead of providing a single penny of gratuity after my damn fine waitressing, if I did say so myself, despite how much I wanted to curl into a ball on my sofa and cry while killing things on video games…and maybe stuffing my face with chocolate and ice cream. And piña coladas. God, and drowning myself with so many piña coladas! And maybe singing really sappy, sad love songs like “My Heart Will Go On” as I envisioned all the zombies I slaughtered were Fisher…or that bassist for Non-Castrato and the way-too-hot lead singer, Asher Hart.
Work had somewhat helped distract me from my melancholy all evening, but now, not even the half a dozen smelly grease stains on my clothes or my sore feet could keep my mind off those stupid auditions and that bastard group of band members who’d laughed in my face. Actually, my greasy smell and sore feet only helped highlight how awful it all was.
I was never going to be accepted into any band. I don’t know what I’d been thinking to audition today. Not even dating the lead singer of Fish ’N’ Dicks had gotten me into their band. Why had I been so certain someone else would accept me? I was the biggest failure I knew. I’d never gotten anything I’d truly tried for or dreamed of obtaining in my entire life.
A father who stuck around and a sane mother who loved me? Denied.
Finishing college and showing my uncle I wasn’t worthless? Nope.
Marrying Braden Fisher—who was supposed to be the great love of my life—and creating the best band ever with him and his crew? Hells to the no.
Finding any man to love me? Nada.
Becoming a drummer in whatever band took me in and playing in front of a live audience? Not even a freaking audition.
Hating how miserable and sad and dejected it made me, I focused on the rage. I balled my hands into fists of fury and muttered to the room at large. “I’m never listening to your stupid music again, Non-Castrato.”
I really didn’t expect the room to respond. So when it said, “I had a bad feeling you didn’t get it,” I yelped out a startled scream.
Whirling toward the doorway of the kitchen, I scowled at my roommate for scaring the crap out of me. She’d piled her flaming red hair into a mop on top of her head and sported a green cami and shorts that barely covered her crotch—her usual around-the-house gear, regardless of whether it was summer or the middle of winter…though it happened to be November.
Cradling a steamy mug that smelled like cappuccino with both hands, she carried it into the front room and curled onto the couch beside me to give me the ultimate sympathetic sigh. “You would’ve called hours ago, screaming and ecstatic, if there’d been good news.”
My lower lip trembled. I never could handle pity well. “Fuckers wouldn’t even let me audition.”
“I’m sorry, puta.” I have no idea why Jodi always used the Spanish word for whore as a term of affection for me, but ever since I’d taught her the translation, that’s what she’d affectionately called me. Today, it only made me cry harder though, because it reminded me how much she loved me, and I really-really needed some love right now.
Damn ovaries.
“Was it because you’re a girl?” she asked.
“Yes.” I wiped at my eyes, only to pause and give her a sharp glance. “Wait, how did you know that?”
She shrugged. “Because their name is Non-Castrato and castrato means—”
“I know what the fuck castrato means,” I snapped, feeling a mite bit testy…and pathetic…and fairly worthless. But music was my life; I’d majored in it in college for a good three semesters before I’d dropped out at Fisher’s insistence that he needed me on hand for his band stuff. I’d even written a paper about how young boys in the 1700s had been castrated before puberty so their voices would remain high, leading to the very term, castrato. I wasn’t a complete idiot—just maybe half an idiot. Fine, three-quarters. Whatever. Still. I did know what castrato meant.
“Of course you do,” Jodi cooed, patting my leg. “But what I can’t figure out is why you’re sitting here, letting those pricks make you cry.”
Leave it to my roommate. She was quick to sympathize, but just as quick to give me the kick in the ass I needed to end my pity party.
I blinked and wiped my face. “Because I’ve dreamed my whole damn life for exactly this kind of opportunity. I have practiced, and sweated, and bled to be the best goddamn drummer there is. And they wouldn’t even fucking listen to me!”
“Exactly,” Jodi said. “You have worked at this for years. Why are you giving up now? Non-Castrato isn’t the only band. I’m sure you can— “
“But they’re the one I wanted to join! They were good and going places. And I want to be a part of that. It’s just…something about them felt right.” Until they’d treated me like crap and told me to git.
“Then make yourself a part of it, damn it.”
“Whatever. I don’t want anything to do with the scumbags now. What I’d really like to do is force them to listen to my talent and then laugh in their faces and deny them when they beg me to join their sucky band.”
“Ooh, yes. I like that idea.” Jodi pointed at me before taking a sip. “Do that.”
“As if I could.” Defeated, I tossed my hands into the air. “Bastards won’t listen to a girl drummer, remember?”
“Then don’t be a girl drummer,” Jodi rolled her eyes and muttered, “Gah.”
I froze, staring at her. “Wait. What? Do you mean, like…” I flashed my eyes open wide as I flew off the couch to grip my head in both hands. “Oh, my God. You’re a genius. Do you think you could do it? Do you think you could make me a man? Like…just for an hour?”
Jodi shook her head, obviously not following my train of thought. “Huh?”
“This is exactly what you’re going to college for. To make special effects for movies. That includes masks and such, right? Could you make me a guy? You know, like they made Robin Williams into a woman in Mrs. Doubtfire?”
“Um…” Trilling out a nervous laugh as if she wanted to believe I was joking but feared I wasn’t, Jodi shook her head. “I don’t think you realize how much time and work would go into making something like that. And it’d be even harder to make it in any way realistic.”
Desperate, I grabbed her hand, my gaze beseeching. “It only has to be believable long enough to get me through one audition. After that, when they hear how great I am, then I’ll rip the mask off and tell them, ha, a girl can be good, so go fuck yourselves.”
When leery temptation loomed in my roommate’s eyes, I knew I had her. I just needed one more good solid beg to break through her resistance. “Jodi, please, I need this. I’m counting on you and your amazing talent to help me find a little justice in the world…for all women.”
And… Jodi melted. I held my pleading stare as her internal conflict crumbled to dust. “Oh, all right. But if tomorrow is the last day they’re holding auditions, we need to get started, like, right fucking now.”
Strange fact about me: I totally dug strange and unusual facts.
I knew the term for killing your uncle was avunculicide. Your sister: sororicide. Your wife: uxoricide. Slaughtering everyone in the hopes of wiping out humankind in general: omnicide. But I did not know what it was called when you wanted to murder your fell
ow bandmates, and I really thought I should become familiar with that term since I was seriously considering employing it.
They were driving me out of my fucking mind.
We’d made a deal before hiring the next drummer that everyone had to agree one hundred percent on someone and vote with a unanimous thumbs-up before we let the next guy in. I hadn’t been too keen on the last drummer we’d had from the beginning. There’d just been something skeevy about him that had rubbed me wrong. But he could carry a beat so I hadn’t balked when Gally had brought him onboard. I was easygoing like that.
Oh, you have someone in mind? Fine, he’s in.
Well, not anymore. Rock had cured me of that blind naivety when he’d tried to take out one of my very good friends. Turned out, he was a pyro to boot who’d killed a good portion of his family in a house fire years ago (called familicide, by the way). So, he was currently rotting away behind bars and serving hard time, while the rest of us were stuck in the lurch, with four days left to find a new drummer, or we wouldn’t be able to play our usual Friday night gig…for the sixth weekend in a row.
This was the second day of tryouts—we’d advertised keeping it open for three—and the three of us had been unable to agree on a single damn drummer yet. Not one freaking person.
I was holding out for talent and, you know, the non-pyro vibe—scarily enough, there’d been a couple of those. Gally seemed fixated on image. No dreads, too much face metal, not enough tattoos. Didn’t matter how they sounded; he just wanted a certain look…or gender, apparently, since he hadn’t bothered to listen to the one girl who’d come in.
And Heath…yeah, Heath didn’t give an explanation. He just shook his head yes or no. Maybe he was going on gut feeling alone. Who knew? It was hard to tell with him.
I had to admit, no one had impressed me enough to flip up my skirt either, but there’d been a handful I would’ve settled for, if my two fucking bandmates hadn’t immediately nixed them.
I was beginning to think this little democracy thing we had going was the worst idea ever when Gally flopped into a chair and groaned as he smoothed his hands up either side of his Mohawk—which he’d dyed orange this week—as if to make sure it was still in place.
“This fucking sucks. I say we call it quits for the day.”
Yes. That was about the only thing I could agree with right now. I motioned toward Heath. “Clear’em out.”
As Heath pulled the strap of his guitar over his head and set his baby down before heading for the door, I unhooked myself from my Taylor and rolled my shoulders to ease knotted muscle. We hadn’t had a break in hours, and I could feel it.
“Reconvene here at eight?” I asked the guys when Heath returned from sending all the applicants in the hall away.
“Re-what?” Gally asked, sending me a confused scowl with his mouth fallen open and eyes squinted.
I refrained from the long, tired sigh caught in my chest. “Meet,” I said. “Do you guys want to meet back here at eight…in the morning?”
Gally shook his head. “Why the fuck didn’t you just say that the first time?”
Oh my God, I really needed to get out of here.
This time, I did sigh. After cupping the back of my neck in both hands, to hopefully keep all the veins in it from exploding, I ground out, “See you in the morning.”
I zipped my guitar into its case, flung the strap over my shoulder so the Taylor rested against my back, and hurried for the exit.
I’d never really connected with anyone in the band before. After working a night shift alongside Heath for over two years as a package handler at a local shipping warehouse, I’d finally coaxed out of him during a break one night that he liked to play guitar. When I suggested we hang out and jam some time, he hadn’t said no.
Starting an actual band had been about the furthest thing from my mind at that point. But Heath’s cousin’s boyfriend at the time—aka Billy Galloway—had heard us play one night and he’d butted his way into our sessions, saying he knew a drummer, and so…our garage days had begun.
Friends would stop by to listen to us. It still hadn’t occurred to me to start an actual band until one of Gally’s many women had told us we would be famous someday. From that point on, all Gally and Rock could talk about was getting bigger.
Since neither of them had the wherewithal to actually do anything about it, I’d dug into the research scene and figured out what we needed to do to start.
The naming thing had taken us over a week. That had almost been a bigger headache to survive than finding a new drummer. But we’d finally been able to settle on Non-Castrato. Next was finding a place to perform. After striking out at nightclubs that were well known for taking on new talent and giving them a chance to show their stuff, I took a leap of faith and contacted the newbie owner of Forbidden. The place had never had anything above jukebox music in its bar before, but I’d already been batting zero. I had nothing to lose by simply asking.
After cornering Pick Ryan in his office, I’d blurted out my request, and I have no idea why—I must’ve caught the guy on a good day or something—but he’d agreed to let us play in his club. It might’ve had something to do with me saying we’d play for free and that I’d come to work for him as a bartender since that’s what he’d needed at the time, but whatever. He’d agreed!
So I found myself quitting the package handling job to work for Pick and starting this music venture with basically three strangers. I hadn’t regretted it once, though, not through any of the long hours or headaches or pretty much having to set up all the gigs and create any original song we sang. It was a challenge I loved and a place I knew I belonged as soon as I’d stepped into the position.
But yeah, sometimes I thought it would’ve been nice if we all understood each other a little better, or if my bandmates actually knew what half the words I said meant. I guess we didn’t need to be tight to make a group, however. There was no reason for me to be whiny and wistful. I was probably just one of those people who simply wasn’t meant to have a great meeting of the minds with others.
Besides, tomorrow was a fresh, new day. I assured myself we’d finally find a fourth band member to agree on and my current frustrations would be moot.
As I pushed out of the studio and into the cool November evening, however, I felt restless. Unsatisfied. Because I still wished I had…fuck, I’m not even sure. Maybe a friend. Just one person I could hang out with and do shit with, or maybe not even do anything with. Just someone to be there, to help me get out of my own head for a while. A lifeline of sorts.
I’d told myself for years that I wasn’t lonely. But screw it, I was lonely.
And oddly enough, this past year that I’d worked at Forbidden and made more casual friends than I’d ever had before, I was realizing just how utterly alone I was.
Or maybe I was just in a mood because I was still letting what that girl had said earlier bother me. But, dammit, we were not a cliché. I’d worked hard to be my own kind of person and write songs that were different from everything else out there. Why had she gone and said the one thing that would bug me the most? Now her words were going to fester until they drove me crazy.
And what was up with calling me a man-whore? Was she for real? She didn’t know me. She didn’t know how I interacted with women, or that it’d been months since I’d last had sex. It itched at my craw that she would so easily label me like that.
But then, I tried to tell myself she’d been upset, for which I totally didn’t blame her. Gally should’ve let her audition (yet another reason I was irritated with him). So maybe it’d only been her anger talking.
Okay, fine…the truth was I was stewing because I was mad at myself. I could’ve forced the issue and let her audition, except damn…she’d affected me. Instantly.
As soon as she’d walked in the door with her long, tan legs sticking out of her short, short skirt with such a cocky, self-assured saunter, this heat had spread up from my gut and scorched my brain cells. That ki
nd of immediate, intense reaction had only happened to me, like, twice in my life. Once a few months ago, and then…today. I didn’t much like it. It turned my hormones into these primitive beasts that wanted nothing but pussy.
I’d been forced to turn away and pretend to take a drink because I feared staring much longer might’ve caused me to sprout wood. But I just kept picturing myself ripping off that cheap blonde wig to see what she really looked like under there and then pushing her against the first available surface so I could feast upon her.
Seriously, the craving had been that bad.
So busy trying to cool my jets, I hadn’t even paid attention to what Gally was telling her until she’d said, “Is this some kind of joke,” and her voice…damn, her husky voice had me jonesing big time. It was low for a female but still really, extra sexy.
When I finally realized Gally was rejecting her because of her gender, sadly, I’d felt a spark of relief. There would’ve been no way I could’ve concentrated around someone who attracted me the way she did. I knew it was biased, cowardly, awful, and completely sexist of me, but I just couldn’t be in a band with her without wanting to jump her…constantly, and probably convincing her even more that I was some kind of man-whore.
And so, I felt crappy and antsy and regretful as I marched to my ride for not giving her the simple audition she’d wanted.
My motorcycle—bless her faithful heart—sat on the curb, patiently awaiting me. The ’72 Triumph might’ve been badass if it weren’t so old and beat to hell. But it’d been cheaper than anything I could find with four wheels and had better gas mileage, so I wasn’t going to complain about image. I loved her anyway.
I went about coaxing her to life—turning on the fuel, pushing the tickler, flipping the choke and ignition before kick-starting her—then I was good to go.
The only place I really had to head was home to Mozart, but right now, that felt like a miserable option, so I steered the Triumph toward my favorite place on earth.