“The rest of the line. Cymbals, bass drum, quints. I don’t think the pit got the invite, though.” He referred to the percussion instruments that didn’t march. The group that handled the xylophones, gong, and other unwieldy apparatuses hung out on the fringes of the action, both on the field and off, even though they were technically a part of the drumline. He tipped his head toward the makeshift bar on the kitchen counter. “I think a few of the especially bouncy ones over there are majorettes.”
The pitch of their giggles confirmed his guess, as did the length of their skirts. I didn’t blame them for showing up though. Drummers were hot and were known for their talented fingers. “Is there anyone here you’ve—”
An arm flung around my shoulder and a red plastic cup was shoved in my face, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Marco’s face was uncomfortably close to mine as I rescued the drink before he dumped it down my shirt. I schooled my expression as his beer breath bathed my face. My shoulders were still aching and him leaning on me wasn’t helping matters.
“What’s this?” I held up the cup and used the motion to force some more space between us. “I wouldn’t have expected you to come bearing gifts.”
He laughed, a loud, grating sound that gave me a pretty good indication how many drinks he’d already had himself. “It’s the official drumline drink. NAD juice.”
I swirled the thick, syrupy red concoction. It smelled both sweet and strong at the same time.
“Drink up, babe.” The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.
After the three shots at the door, I was feeling loose as I lifted it to my lips and chugged the whole thing in one go, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time. Finished, I smacked my lips and handed him the empty cup. “Delicious.” And, in truth, it wasn’t bad. I wouldn’t have been surprised at all to find out NAD juice was cheap Hawaiian punch mixed with something like Everclear.
“Damn…” Smith nodded his respect, and the corner of his lip twitched like it wanted to smile, but he was trying to contain it.
Marco snorted. “Looks like someone’s had a lot of practice swallowing.”
I looked him over slowly, taking in his untucked button-up shirt with the rolled-up sleeves and predictable distressed jeans paired with pristine-white classic Adidas. Flicking my eyes back up, I arched an eyebrow. “Jealous?”
Smith coughed, holding a fist up to his mouth, and I turned to pat his back. “You okay there, buddy?”
“Yeah, thanks. Something kinda burned all the sudden, ya know?” He cleared his throat a few more times, no longer trying to hide his grin.
Marco slung his arm out, but it collided with a leggy redhead before he could open his mouth to respond. She caught his wrist on her admittedly impressive chest, entwined their fingers, and scooted over until she was plastered to his side. I blinked. The girl moved fast.
“Marco,” she cooed, batting her fake lashes at him. “I was hoping to run into you tonight.”
“What?” I mouthed at Smith. This chick wanted to spend time with him?
The redhead twisted briefly in our direction. “Hi. I’m Amber. And this is Willa.” She tipped her head at the petite blonde next to her. “We both play cymbals.” Her and Marco’s joined hands rubbed back and forth along the fly of his jeans. “We do our best to keep our snare players happy.”
Marco’s eyelids drooped, and he seemed to zero in on her candy-red lacquered lips. No doubt he was picturing how that gloss would look circling the base of his dick. “If you’ll excuse us…” Without another word, he pulled her through the crowd until they disappeared through a door. Presumably to a bedroom, but I wouldn’t put it past him to hog the bathroom instead.
Willa shook her head, her sleek hair swaying gently around her shoulders. “Please, don’t judge all of us cymbal girls based on her.”
Smith laughed and introduced himself, and then pointed his thumb at me. “And this is Reese. We’re both trying out for snare.”
“Wait,” she peered at me more closely, “you’re both trying for snare?”
“Yup,” I answered. Her reaction would let me know if she fell into the friend or foe category.
“How’s that going?” Respect, not derision, colored her tone. Friend it was.
“I’m still here.”
She smiled and her whole face lit up, and I thought Marco was an idiot for going for someone like Amber over someone like Willa. “For the record, I hope you make it. I’d love to see things around here shook up a little.” She squeezed my arm and whispered conspiratorially, “Plus, you get to work with Laird Bronson all day? How fucking lucky are you!”
“I wouldn’t really know.” I rubbed my sore shoulder absently, but at the mention of his name, my eyes automatically scanned the crowd, seeking him out. “I’ve barely talked to him.” And it was true. After the run, they’d kept us pretty busy, and while I’d felt the weight of his eyes on me from time to time, we hadn’t spoken again.
It took me a minute to spot him in the kitchen next to Bubba and some other guys I hadn’t met yet, gathered around a keg while one of them tapped out a rhythm on the side of it with a pair of drumsticks. But what stole my breath was the way he was looking across the room—right at me. His green eyes captured mine boldly, and I fidgeted under the intensity of his gaze, my fingers tugging on the hem of my tank top, smoothing it over the waistband of my jeans.
And I wasn’t the only one to notice. Willa squealed, then whispered, “He’s looking this way!” She jutted out her curvy hip and twisted toward me and Smith, presenting Laird with an excellent view of her ass. Then she peeked over her shoulder again, working her hair flip like a pro. Even I was impressed.
I shifted my weight to see past her and was oddly disappointed to find him edging around the small bistro table wedged in the corner, our connection broken. But when he climbed up on a cheap, folding kitchen chair, I didn’t pass up the opportunity to scope out the way his worn jeans hung from his lean hips and hugged his thighs.
Next to him, Bubba put his fingers to his mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle. “Y’all. Shut your traps for a minute and listen to the captain!”
The background noise fizzled out and the packed room swung their collective attention his way. Was it just me, or was he blushing slightly under the sudden scrutiny? Our eyes met again, and his gaze lingered for a long moment before roving over the rest of the gathered crowd.
“I want to thank all of you who are still here after the first day for coming out tonight and enjoying some NAD juice with us. We’re excited for the upcoming season and to see which of you will make the final cut.”
“And for some fresh pussy!” a voice called out.
He laughed. “New faces are always a good thing.” Laird held up his cup in agreement and a chorus of hoots rang out. I cringed, wondering if that’s all they saw me as—a pair of thighs to be spread, conquered, and discarded. “And so are drumline traditions. The first of which starts tonight. In the effort to mingle and make some new friends, it’s expected that all you NADs at least reach first base tonight. Enjoy some drinks, introduce yourselves, and have a good time.”
“Condoms are in a bowl by the front door!” another voice shouted. “Be safe!”
“If you don’t understand how to hit a single, find a vet to instruct you, or, better yet, go ahead and cut yourself. This is the motherfucking Rodner drumline!” He hopped off the chair as catcalls and howls rang out. I guess that was the official welcome speech.
The buzz rose as everyone shuffled about, groups dispersing and reforming as they lined up their potential partners. While I might have been the only girl auditioning for the snare line, most of the cymbal players were female.
Willa bounced on her toes and dug some lipstick out of her pocket. She smeared on a quick layer of dark pink and smacked her lips. “This was my favorite part last year!” she confided, offering me the tube.
I declined, and scrunched my nose up at her. “Really? It didn’t
bother you that it was just for some dumb challenge?”
“What? Hell, no. Have you looked around? These are some of the hottest guys at Rodner. Why would I be upset?” She glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, look, Laird is headed this way! I thought we’d kind of had a connection last year, but I didn’t hear from him over the summer, so I wasn’t sure what to expect.” She lifted her arms and fluffed her hair as if trying to decide on which pose she should strike. “I held hi-hat for him for the show, and, you know…”
I didn’t, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Smith elbowed me, and I swiveled his direction. “What do you think? You want to do this the easy way and get it over with or the hard way?”
“There’s an easy way?”
He smiled, slow and confident. “There’s always an easy way.”
I paused for a beat. “I like easy.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Just remember, I was a gentleman and asked first.”
With that, he swooped. One arm caught me around my waist while the other circled my shoulders, then the whole room tipped as I was bent over backward. I reflexively grabbed ahold of his neck for balance. “Nice touch,” he murmured.
And then his lips were on mine.
Laird
The stab of white-hot jealousy was so sharp and unexpected, I found myself frozen in the middle of my own fucking party. All around me, people were flirting, laughing, drinking.
And I was stuck, my legs and feet useless beneath me, my heart slamming against my ribcage.
Topher, the drumline’s resident hipster, bumped into my side and I shifted to the right a step, unable to tear my eyes away from Smith and Reese. From her lips moving under his, and her arms wrapped tight around his neck.
I ripped the bottle of beer from Topher’s hand, ignoring his protest, and chugged it without tasting a drop as I plowed my way through the room. Halfway there, a palm landed on my elbow and I blankly registered a girl calling my name, but I didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
Why the fuck were they still kissing?
Would I be out of line if I cut Smith from the auditions on the spot?
I was three steps away when they finally broke apart—although the bastard still had his hands on her waist. My lips pinched in annoyance. As if that little display was enough to truly knock her off balance.
“Woah, Smith.” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and I couldn’t suppress the surge of satisfaction that gave me. “What have you been drinking tonight?” She licked her lips. “It actually tastes pretty good.”
He would die.
“Grape lollipop on the way over here. I’m kind of an addict.” Smith must’ve had some tiny measure of self-preservation, because his eyes flickered to me briefly and he dropped his hands. “Better watch out…”
“For what?” Reese laughed, and I couldn’t look away from her long enough to glare a warning at Smith to keep his damn hands to himself or he’d find it mighty fucking hard to play the drums tomorrow.
He glanced at me again warily, but held his stance next to her, close enough their arms were still brushing. “Or else you’ll get addicted too.”
“Bring me one tomorrow. I gotta see what the fuss is all about.”
Nothing. There was absolutely nothing about him to fuss over whatsoever.
I joined their circle and thrust my empty bottle at Smith, catching him solidly in the gut. To his credit, he barely flinched. “Here, NAD. Get rid of this and bring me another cold one.” I purposefully didn’t use his name.
“Sure,” he said slowly, studying the hard set of my jaw. “Reese, Willa, can I get you two anything?”
Willa requested something fruity. Reese declined a drink, but called his name as he started for the kitchen. “Can you find me some more of those Goldfish? I think I accidentally spilled the last few when you—”
“Is your shoulder bothering you?” I interrupted.
She turned and tilted her head at me quizzically.
“You’re rubbing it.” Reese looked down and seemed surprised to find her hand massaging the spot where her neck curved into the slope of her left shoulder.
“Yeah, a little,” she admitted, lowering her arm. “But I’m fine. I took a few Motrin, and I’ll be good as new tomorrow.”
“Want me to take a look at it?” I was already reaching out, my fingers itching for any excuse, no matter how lame, to touch her skin, to see if it felt as soft as I imagined.
She tipped her chin up at me, her expression wary. “Do you ask all the guys that?”
“What?” I screwed up my face. “Fuck, no.”
She stepped back, my fingers denied their goal. And, honestly, I was surprised. Not to sound like a dick, but I didn’t typically have trouble attracting a girl. Usually the issue was dodging the ones I wasn’t interested in.
“Look,” she waited a beat until our eyes connected before continuing, “I don’t want any special treatment from you. I’m just another drummer trying out for the line, like all the other guys.”
Fuck that shit.
On the field, yeah, I was gonna hold her to the same high standard I would any drummer. Hell, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she still got cut, just because the odds weren’t in her favor. But off? She was nuts if she thought the way she looked in those jeans made her blend into the crowd.
No, tonight, she was anything but ordinary. I didn’t get a chance earlier today to study the stubborn angle of her jaw, or the delicate way the tip of her nose turned up just a smidge. With her dark hair out of the way, the creaminess of her neck called to me, begging me to trace its curve with my fingers, my mouth, my tongue. And for the first time, I got a good view of her eyes. She didn’t need all the makeup she was wearing. No way they could ever look anything but stunning. Her big, coffee brown irises, dark enough to swallow me whole, flashed with irritation as I stepped closer, edging her in front of me until her back was to my chest.
“But you’re not,” I whispered, dipping my head and deliberately letting my lips graze the shell of her ear.
She shivered, and my cock stirred.
I cupped her shoulders with my palms, my thumbs drifting down between the multitude of bright pink bra straps. I pressed just inside the ridges of her shoulder blades and dug in where I knew she was most likely to have knots from today.
She groaned and tried to jerk away, but I held her in place. Bullseye. “Stay still.” My voice brooked no argument. Using deep, meticulous strokes, I rubbed the tension out of her upper back, gratified when her muscles slowly relaxed beneath me. Her skin was like warm silk under my hands, and when she arched her back like a cat, lolling her head from side to side, a soft moan escaped from her mouth, and I had to stop myself from pressing against the swell of her ass.
I studied the pink bands crossing her back as I worked, wondering how in the hell it came off. I was jumping ahead several steps in my mind, but this feisty girl was making me crazy. She smelled like cherries and I wasn’t sure if it was from her, or the fruity drink I’d seen her gulp down when Marco had joined her. The pads of my thumbs smoothed their way up the tight cords of her neck, and I felt more than heard the hum of satisfaction vibrate through her.
I couldn’t help it. I eased closer, rationalizing it was a crowded room and I was conserving space. She was the perfect height for me, tall for a girl, but still several inches below my six foot three. Kissing her would be easy, her tilting up and me tipping down. No awkward crouching required while she balanced on her toes.
“You know,” Willa said, rolling her shoulders, “those cymbals get damn heavy.” She sidled my direction and motioned to her own back. “Last year, I always got the worst pain right there—remember?”
No, I didn’t.
In front of me, Reese stiffened, her spine straightening until her ponytail tickled my chin. I tightened my fingers, not ready to let her go yet. I aimed a noncommittal noise at Willa. “It always takes a few weeks to strengthen up.”
&n
bsp; Reese pulled away from me, one foot sliding forward to break our connection. “I think I’m good now, thanks,” she murmured. Pink tinged those high cheekbones of hers. “How much do your cymbals weigh?” She directed the question at Willa.
“God, who knows, but it feels like a hundred pounds by the end of the day.”
I pressed my lips together as Reese scooted away, a full two feet of emptiness between us. Who fucking cared about her cymbals?
“Yeah,” Reese said. “I know what you mean. The drum seems like it gets heavier and heavier sometimes.”
Great. They were bonding.
Then Smith showed back up, drinks and crackers in hand, and I knew it was a lost cause. I huffed out my irritation as I accepted the beer he’d retrieved for me. “Thanks,” I acknowledged, the word clipped. I took a quick swallow and then held the bottle loosely in front of me, using it to camouflage what was left of my erection.
Reese took the cup filled to the brim with Goldfish and sent Smith a blinding smile. Over some fucking crackers. I scowled. She stepped aside, and Smith settled into the open space between us.
Willa touched my shoulder and asked me something about the schedule tomorrow, but I barely heard her, muttering a quick reply about checking her email, my eyes repeatedly drawn back to Reese.
I might not have been standing next to her, but she was aware of me. It was in the way her eyes flicked to mine, and then quickly away, her tongue slipping out to wet her full lower lip. The way she sucked in a quick breath when I continued to watch her, ignoring Willa’s blathering next to me. Hell, it was even in the way her shoulders and hips faced me, despite placing her at an awkward angle within our little circle.
Smith distracted me, asking me a technical question about stick height during the opening number. “Nine inches to start,” I answered without ever looking at him. It was rude, but I didn’t care. I was thoroughly preoccupied by the sight of Reese chasing an errant fish out of the loose neckline of her shirt, her fingers disappearing into her cleavage.
“That’s what she said,” Marco jeered as he shoved his way next to me, dragging a redhead with him. April? Amy? Her name was something like that.
Drumline Page 3