Drumline

by Stacy Kestwick

  “Right,” I deadpanned, in no mood for his company tonight. The beer tasted like shit when I took a long swallow, but it was cold and wet and made Marco infinitely more bearable.

  Smith tipped his head toward Marco. “That piece for sight-reading this afternoon was pretty wicked. Any chance we’ll get to play something like that for the drum break?”

  “Ooh.” Willa clapped. “I’d be happy to be your partner for that again this year, Laird.” Okay, whatever. I smiled weakly when she grabbed my bicep and squeezed.

  “Not likely,” Marco snorted. “Unless you guys do a hell of a lot of practicing between now and then. Most of you NADs fell apart on that exercise.”

  Reese hadn’t. In fact, she’d had one of the cleaner executions of it. She lifted her chin, her shoulders rigid, but she didn’t say anything. I started to speak up, then stopped when I caught the way her eyes narrowed in warning at me. No special treatment… And, shit, I wouldn’t normally defend another snare—because they would’ve fucking done it themselves.

  “Nah, man. Me and Reese were playing around with it later, tweaking the intro a little. We could show it to you tomorrow if you want.” Reese shot Smith a grateful smile.

  What the fuck? It was fine for him to speak up, but not me?

  “Yeah, not gonna happen, man. You’re NADs. You don’t change the music around, and you definitely don’t help decide the drum break. Shit, you’re not even on the line yet.”

  Smith kept his face neutral, but his fingers tapped a quick, agitated rhythm against his thigh. “Right. Of course,” he bit out, his voice walking the fine line of apology and sarcasm.

  Reese’s jaw was set and she stared at Marco flatly, no doubt holding back that sharp tongue of hers.

  “Anyway, kids,” Marco continued, oblivious to the tension in the air, “Amber and I”—ah, right her name was Amber—“are headed out for a little private practice session.”

  “I thought you already took care of that,” Reese snorted. I grinned, not sure why I loved the way she gave him shit, but I did.

  Marco assessed her coolly. “Just a warm up, babe. Just a little warm up. Don’t be all jealous now. You want to join us?”

  Oh, hell fucking no. Not in this lifetime. If she left with anyone in this room, it damn better sure be me. My chest swelled, and my fingers tightened into fists.

  “Here’s the thing.” Reese spoke softly, stopping me in my tracks, and Marco was forced to lean in closer to hear her. “When I sleep with someone, I don’t want him to still need practice at it. I prefer my men to already know what the fuck they’re doing in the bedroom.”

  Silence descended on our group as her words hung in the air.

  I might have fallen in love with her. Just like that.

  Smith pressed a fist to his mouth, eyes crinkled with barely hidden mirth, and Willa muttered an impressed, “Damn.” Her deep Southern accent stretched the word into two long syllables.

  Marco’s face transformed, twisting into an ugly sneer, and I automatically took a step closer to Reese, a telling action that Marco registered. Snapping his tight gaze between us, the tendons in his neck bulging, he raised his hand and pointed his finger at her. “You better be ready for tomorrow, little girl. You’re gonna pay for that on the field.”

  Then Marco snatched up Amber’s hand and yanked her behind him as he stalked to the front door, slamming it behind them hard enough to rattle the frame.

  At the commotion, Bubba wandered out of the kitchen, two full plastic cups in hand. He looked at me inquisitively, and I gave my head a slight shake, signaling him not to make a big deal out of it. Bubba kept his path toward us though, delivering the cups to Reese and Smith upon arrival.

  “Drink up, children. The night’s still young!”

  Smith tapped his cup against Reese’s. “To surviving day one!”

  “I’ll drink to that.” She smiled, her whole face lighter, as if the last five minutes never happened. “Race you, Robin.”

  Robin? I didn’t like that she had a stupid little nickname for him. Something hot twisted in my gut.

  With that, they both lifted the cups to their mouths, guzzling the punch like a couple of frat brothers. Smith lowered his arm slightly ahead of her, crumpling the cup in his hand as he finished. “Batman loses. You’re going to need to hand over that cape.”

  Swaying on her feet slightly, Reese giggled. “I don’t think you understand how this whole sidekick business works.” I wrapped my fingers around her hip to steady her, but she swatted my hand away. “Stop it. I’m fine.” She sounded like Willa, the way she drew the word out into a caricature of its original form.

  She jerked her head to face me, her ponytail whipping out and landing over one shoulder in a silky waterfall. I had a brief vision of it spread out across my bare chest, her head nestled on my shoulder as she caught her breath post-orgasm, our skin hot and sticky from our combined sweat. Fuck. I wanted to feel it in all its iterations. Coiled around my fist while she was on her knees. Tangled in my fingers while I held her mouth to mine. Bouncing wildly around her face as she rode me hard and fast. Mussed and rumpled first thing in the morning, when she woke up in my bed.

  I murmured to her, keeping my voice low to avoid causing a scene, “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  Reese

  I had no idea what I was doing. Laird’s words from last night came back to me, and even as my head pounded louder than the snare drum I was tapping out a warm-up cadence on, I loved every second of it. Not the headache part, the not having a plan part.

  I’d moved here from West Virginia precisely because I didn’t know anybody—and they didn’t know me. None of my baggage had followed me across state lines.

  My plan was simple. Whatever I pursued, I’d do it wholeheartedly. No half-assed bullshit.

  Although, after last night, I probably needed to take it easier on the alcohol next time. I hadn’t puked when I woke up, but I’d come damn close. The drumbeats echoed in my aching skull, a slow roll with a sharp accent on the third beat that sped up steadily every eight counts until it was just noise punctuated with other noise, my hands a blur as I struggled to keep up.

  With a stinging slap to his drumhead, Marco ended the exercise and began tapping out the rhythm to the next one, starting out slow. Warm ups always went slow to fast, with the goal to keep the precision, regardless of the tempo.

  I groaned silently and closed my eyes. The Alabama sun was fucking bright on Tuesday mornings.

  Prying my eyes open to slits, I glared at Marco. He was way too chipper, bordering on downright fucking gleeful at nine in the godforsaken morning. He hadn’t even said anything rude to me yet. I guess Amber had emptied his balls good after the party.

  Maybe she could practice with him every night.

  Smith stood very still behind his aviators next to me, moving only the bare necessity required, but he looked like he was in better shape than most of the NADs clustered in a semi-circle on the practice football field. Bubba appeared largely unaffected. Probably from his sheer bulk.

  And Laird… I wasn’t sure about him yet. His movements were brittle, and when he bothered to glance my way, which wasn’t often so far, it was as if he couldn’t decide if he was pissed off or liked what he saw.

  My eyes drifted shut again. Sight wasn’t technically needed for this part of the practice, just rhythm and coordination, and it was nice and dark behind my eyelids. My sunglasses hopefully hid my outward show of weakness.

  Thwap!

  My eyes shot open to find Laird in front of me, reaching forward to play on my drum in tandem with me. I automatically adjusted my hands to make room for his sticks. Breaking rhythm briefly, he shoved his sunglasses on top of his head, purposefully exposing his eyes to me, before seamlessly resuming the cadence.

  Confused, I studied his face. He stared right at me while we played, neither of us looking down. Was this a test? Was he trying to send me a message—either personal or professional?

  W
ith no shield to block them, I could see smudges of purple under his eyes, the way the slight grooves around the outside corners seemed deeper this morning. His brow sagged and his back wasn’t as ramrod straight as it should’ve been.

  I tipped my head to the side almost imperceptibly in silent question.

  His answer was a clenching of his jaw and tightening of his fingers around his drumsticks, his rhythm shifting to a slightly more staccato execution of the triplet pattern.

  So… tired? And pissed? At me?

  His green eyes bore into mine and when I couldn’t take it any longer, I mouthed a silent, “Sorry,” apologizing for whatever I’d done to upset him. He raised his chin a smidgeon in acknowledgement, but that shamrock gaze promised we’d be having a discussion later.

  What had I done?

  The question rattled around my throbbing head as we transitioned to the next round of torture.

  We had to drink a full glass of cold milk before we started a five-mile run, this time thankfully without weighted backpacks. If you puked, you had to drink another glass. Based on the almost two-hour time limit, this was more an exercise in survival and stamina than speed.

  Scrunching up my nose in distaste, I chugged mine down in three long swallows. Milk wasn’t really my thing. It was alright in cereal, or in ice cream form, but just drinking it for the sake of drinking it was something I’d stopped doing years ago.

  Laird and Marco stripped off their shirts, tossing them to the side of the rubberized track. Some of the other guys followed suit. When Marco glanced my way, his eyes full of challenge, I shrugged off my tank top as well, making a point of stretching my arms overhead and twisting at the waist. They weren’t the only ones with flat abs.

  I hoped his dick swelled and hurt like hell when he tried to run with a stiffy. It’d serve him right.

  “You showing off for Marco or Laird?” Smith teased from beside me, flexing his bared pecs and making them dance. “Or is it for me?”

  I made a face. “It could be that it’s just fucking hot out here and my thick blood isn’t used to it yet.”

  “Batman, there ain’t nothing thick about you.”

  I let his compliment roll off me. My body was fine, strong and capable, but nothing to get all that excited about. Average boobs, average ass, good abs, thighs that almost had a gap if I stood just right. I had curves but they weren’t as exaggerated as what the guys tended to drool over. I was just… me.

  “Bet you ten bucks Laird runs behind you again.”

  I shot him a warning look, blaming the heat blooming across my cheeks on the weather. “And I bet you twenty that Marco finds a way to talk to you while we’re out there. You never did tell me, what was that about last time anyway?”

  He waved me off, but his lips twisted in annoyance. “He just wanted to talk about old high school bullshit. Asking if the line there had gone to hell after he left.”

  All around us, NADs and vets alike surged forward. I must have missed the start signal while we were talking.

  We fell into the pack near the end, our pace easy. I could feel the milk sloshing in my belly as we ran. The banana and ibuprofen I’d had for breakfast did nothing to absorb the liquid and I regretted not getting a stack of pancakes in the dining hall instead.

  On lap two, a NAD jetted to the edge of the track, vomiting into the grass. Another one joined him on lap three. By lap six, they’d both quit, the second glass of milk not going down any easier than the first.

  As we ran, I tried to recall last night. I honestly didn’t remember much after that last cup of NAD juice Marco gave me. I woke up in my own bed, in my locked dorm room, so I’d gotten home somehow. I’d even washed my face and changed into an oversized Rodner University t-shirt before crashing. I frowned as we rounded a curve. The details were fuzzy, dancing just out of my reach. Had Smith helped me out? Or Willa? I had a vague memory of her saying she lived in the dorm building next to mine.

  At the end of the run, Marco looked pleased as he watched the quitters pack their stuff and walk away, and I’d lost both bets to Smith. Laird had brought up the rear of the group, whether because he felt it was his spot as a leader or, as Smith predicted as he held out his hand for payment, to watch me jiggle. And Scrotum Breath had kept his distance the whole time, which somehow struck me as more suspicious than if he’d taunted us during the event.

  As we both used our shirts to wipe down our sweaty upper bodies, I stole furtive glances at Laird. He was talking with a skinny guy named Topher I’d been introduced to briefly last night, his hands bracketing his narrow hips, making no effort to cover himself up yet.

  My throat was dry and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I watched him. Laird’s chest was carved perfection, with a star inked high on his left pec and something else small tattooed on the other one. A letter, maybe? I was too far away to tell for sure.

  Laird laughed at something Topher said and his abs rippled, framed by a pair of delicious obliques that arrowed down to his groin.

  Dear sweet Jesus in the garden, I wanted to smell him. Covered in sweat and sunshine with a smile on his face. Maybe lick his neck for good measure.

  Smith handed me a bottle of water, and I forced myself to turn away from my all too tempting half-naked captain before I did something stupid to gain his attention, like dump the water all over my chest instead of drinking it.

  “Hot today, isn’t it?” I said dumbly, sipping at the water.

  Smith chuckled and elbowed me, his knowing gaze touching briefly on Laird. “It damn sure is.”

  I scowled. It’s not like I could call dibs. He was the fucking captain.

  Nothing could happen between us, no matter how much I might want it. If I made the line—no, scratch that—when I made the line, I didn’t want there to be any doubt how I earned my spot.

  And it’d be with my drumsticks, not on my knees.

  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t daydream.

  Marco clapped his hands, effectively calling our attention to him, and we dutifully gathered around. He stood up on a bench, and I swore he flexed his biceps as he spoke. “Two more down. C’mon NADs, suck it up. You’re making this too easy for us. You get an hour break, which I highly suggest using to shower so I don’t have to smell y’all the rest of the day, and then we’re meeting back in East Hall for more sight-reading. I need to get rid of a few more of you ball-lickers today.”

  Smith choked on his water next to me as Marco finished dismissing us.

  “You okay there, Robin?”

  “I’m fine.” He waved me off. “Just went down the wrong side. C’mon, let’s get out of here and get some caffeine before the afternoon session.”

  We gathered up our stuff and headed out. A few of the other guys actually talked to me as we trekked across campus back to the dorms. I met Cade and his older brother Charlie, who was a junior on the line. While Cade seemed like a nice guy, his presence at auditions worried me. There were only a few spots available, and I’d bet anything his brother would be able to guarantee him one of them. Van, the other junior besides Topher and Charlie, rounded out our group, and I tripped over my feet when he complimented me on playing.

  Holy shit, was it happening? Were they finally starting to accept me as a fellow drummer?

  But then Marco drove by, honking the horn of his shiny black, jacked-up Ford pickup that was no doubt compensating for inches he was lacking elsewhere, the bass thumping so loud I could feel it in my chest, and I remembered that Van wasn’t the one I needed to worry about impressing.

  He was.

  I was in the last group for sight-reading, and had been killing time in the holding room for over two hours waiting for my turn. My earbuds were in and I was tapping away to a Spotify playlist using my thighs as a makeshift drum to quietly pound out the percussion line. Three NADs had already walked out with their heads down, shoulders drooping, and avoiding eye contact. They didn’t say it, but I knew. They’d been cut.

  Smith had gone in the fir
st group and come out beaming. He’d given me a high five before slipping out of here for the day. The only guy left besides me was Heath, who wouldn’t look at me, let alone talk to me. In this case though, I wasn’t taking it personally. I hadn’t seen him speak to anyone so far unless absolutely necessary.

  Marco and Laird appeared in the doorway.

  “Holland,” Laird said without inflection, waiting impassively for me to reach the doorway and follow him into the next room. Heath followed Marco farther down the hall.

  In the room, Laird was stoic. No smiles, no jokes. All business.

  I worked my way through five pieces, each time waiting anxiously as he jotted down notes without providing me any feedback. Not so much as a flicker of expression budged his carved jawline and I found myself smiling bigger at him, raising my eyebrows, cocking my head to the side, every nonverbal cue I could think of to try to trigger a reaction.

  After the last piece, I grabbed my sticks and my bag and headed for the door, not waiting for him to finish writing down whatever it was he was noting about me, fed up with his lack of response. I knew I should wait to see if he wanted to discuss whatever it was that had him scowling so hard during warm-ups, but if he’d wanted to talk, he’d had more than enough opportunities. I was done.

  I wrenched the door open, then flinched when his hand circled my left wrist and he kicked the door closed again.

  He studied me, his eyes roving over every inch of my face as if memorizing the contours. I puffed out a breath, the loose tendrils that’d escaped my messy ponytail resettling around me.

  “What?” I demanded finally.

  “Why are you doing this? Trying out for drumline?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “I’m a drummer.”

  “But why drumline? Why not a garage band or something else?”

  “Look,” I started, annoyance threading its way into my tone. “Do you ask all the guys this too?”

  He lifted a hand, and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. Time stretched as the pads of his fingers hesitated for a moment on the side of my neck. “No. Just you.”