Beats (24 page)

I turn to Toombs. He’s staring at me, Rax apparently forgotten.

He lifts his chin and angles it toward my kit. “Just like last night.”

Easy for him to say.

“I’m right behind you, backing you up every step of the way, babe.”

I inhale deeply. I wish he’d touch me. Kiss me. Something. But Toombs is too private to play that crap in public. I gotta stop being so needy.

A shot of adrenaline races through my blood when he leaves me for his guitar. A panic chaser follows right behind. Time to pull up the big-girl panties.

My mouth is dry. My palms are sweaty. Shades sneaks a peek my way as his fingers run scales up and down the frets of his bass. I lower my head and sit on the throne. Same indentations in the leather cushion, same worn edges, same cracks as always. Yet the seat isn’t comfortable. My posture is off. I stall by adjusting the height of my crash cymbal, repositioning my bass pedal.

I pick up the sticks. Thumbs rub the grain. I search for balance in the wood. My brain tumbles into full-on freak-out mode.

Come on, Jinx.

Toombs jacks into the monitor and tunes up. He left me. On my own. I can’t remember a single rhythm from the explosion in my brain last night.

Tunnel vision sets in. Blood pounds in my ears. I stare at my useless hands…

…And they transform into Mikey’s long, elegant fingers dancing across ebony and ivory keys. Rachmaninoff comes to brilliant, moving life inside my head—a multifaceted musical butterfly emerging from its drab cocoon.

My brother’s talented hands move effortlessly, hitting every note with just the right accents. His passion bleeds through the song, and I even catch a hint of emotion peeking out from the flat planes of his face. A smile tightens the slack lines as he achieves musical perfection despite all the social struggles that challenge him daily.

Mikey’s got it figured out. The key to success is trusting
yourself
. And letting go of everything that weighs you down.

The vision fades, and I’m left staring dumbly at my drumsticks. I shake my head.

I can do this. If not for me or my bandmates, then for Mikey.

My foot chomps on the hi-hat pedal, testing the tension on the clutch. Shades looks at me expectantly, hopefully. Letty sits up, bracing herself on palms, encouraging me with a warm smile.

Toombs turns to me. No hope or encouragement in his expression. Only certainty.

He believes in me. Like Mikey. And Mom and Dad. And Letty and Shades.

Of course I can do this. Surrounded by so much faith and love, how could I not?

I mentally flip my inner metronome to 4/4 time signature and stomp the kick drum on beats one and eleven. Snare taps on five, seven, and thirteen. Top it off with hi-hat on odd beats. I add a bass kick just shy of fourteen.

The groove builds as I stick my toe a little deeper into the improvisation river and fill in with some ghost strokes after a few measures. I flesh out a more defined phrase—only about sixteen bars—and enrich it with each repetition.

Toombs nods as if he fully expected these grooves and joins me on rhythm guitar. Shades grins, tapping his foot to my feathered bass drum counts. With Shades and Toombs holding the song together, I explore, fish for the right rhythms to complement their lead. I pop off some flam drags, but they don’t match the bass line, so I abandon those in favor of a funky polyrhythm fill.

This is good. It’s not perfect, but I’m loosening up, easing back into being comfortable in my creative mode. A jam session unfolds—changing time signatures, shifting styles from Latin to African roots and beyond. I weave in lengthy fills and dabble with syncopation. My mind travels in too many directions, all of them good, but not particularly cohesive.

Shades stops. “What if we did something really fucked up and took that last riff,” he replays the lick, “to 7/8 time?”

Toombs nods and doodles on his guitar for a couple measures until he gets it down. He turns to me.

I freeze up
. Tap tap tap tap…tap…

Come on, Gianna, it’s not hard. Just improvise to seven eighth notes per measure, you dumb-ass.

But my fumbling limbs won’t cooperate. I try again. And again. And again.

What the hell is wrong with me? I just led a rocking improv session without even thinking, and now I can’t lay down a simple 2-4 backbeat in 7/8 time?

Frustration wicks up my spine, coaxing tears to my eyes. Nope. Not gonna cry about a stupid rhythm. This is kindergarten stuff.

Toombs plays the lick again, slowly this time, coaching me with lifted brows on all the accents. He mouths the counts for me.

“Uh…” One more time.
Tap tap tap…

Flounder.

I drop my chin to my chest, hoping my hair will cover my shame. Why can’t I do this? The dams in my eyes are about to burst. I bite my lip hard and try unsuccessfully again. Over and over I fail.

I don’t want to disappoint the band. Least of all, Toombs.

Just as I’m about to throw my sticks on the floor and run out the door, a body warms my back. Two legs hug mine, and Toombs’s arms cover me. Rough calluses caress the backs of my hands, guiding the sticks toward the snare head. I resist, but he whispers beside my ear, “Let me help you, Gianna.”

In this moment, my worst nightmare and deepest desire merge to form a dream come true. All these months on tour, I feared not being able to live up to Toombs’s expectations of me as a drummer. I feared he’d never see me as the musician—or woman—I aspired to be.

But the truth is, I’m
not
the woman I want to be. I’m Gianna Donato whether I like her or not. Flaws and insecurities. Strengths and talents. I’m not infallible or perfect any more than he is. I’m just…me.

And his smile tells me
just me
is okay with him.

Leaning into him for strength, I absorb his beats through our entwined arms and legs. He courses through me—not like Rax’s choking vine, but like a calming drug. Once again, our pulses merge into one singular beat, powered by—

“I love you, baby.” His eyes close, and he buries his nose in my hair.

—love.

Our bodies rock together, but he’s not even playing anymore. This groove is all me. I laugh. The beats were here all along. I just needed Toombs to show me where to dig for them.

I continue banging after he slides his leg off the back of the stool. As he returns to his guitar, I mouth, “I love you too.”

He gives me a curt nod like this is nothing new, and slings the strap across his shoulder. Letty grins up at me like an idiot, waving her phone. She must’ve taken a picture. My chest swells with happiness. Maybe I won’t let my bandmates down after all.

Jillian saunters into the room, expression neutral. Except for her tapping foot, which she promptly stops when she notices me looking at it. I smile as I deepen the fills, drop a few bombs, throw in some linear licks along the way.

Letty stands and plugs a mic into her monitor. She checks the sound while we keep the rhythm going. Only thing missing is our lead—

A freshly showered Rax meanders into the parlor, lips pressed together, brows clenched. A water droplet spirals down one of his loose curls and stains his black shirt blacker. We should stop and let him find his place in the music. I hesitate, but Toombs shakes his head, urging me to continue playing.

Rax’s rich scent fills my nose as he passes my kit. God, the memories—from just a whiff of soap. But I doubt my reaction would be nearly as strong if Toombs hadn’t been a major part of those escapades in the hotel. He was the one who brought me to climax when the three of us were together. Not Rax.

I’m afraid to look at Toombs, knowing his gaze follows Rax, but I do anyway. The joke’s on me. Toombs has me in his sights like we’re the only two people in the world. That sincere expression gives me a direct line to his heart. I hold on tight to his pulse.

Rax picks up the instrument waiting for him on the other side of the room and slips the strap over his head. Guitar hanging at waist level, he walks to the window and forges a masterpiece out of nothing.

Seriously, it’s like magic. A seductive, drawling melody, smooth as aged whiskey people probably drank in the courtyard behind this very house a hundred years ago. Swaggering, drunk, lazy. It’s pure Rax. No other word to describe it.

He and Shades make eye contact. A call-and-answer segment evolves. Rax calls with a scramble of notes, and Shades replies with a quick run and slide. They repeat the pattern for several measures. The conversation is a work of art.

Toombs wanders over and plays in front of me, his back to Rax. Another call issues from lead guitar. This time Shades doesn’t respond. My turn to give encouragement. Pointedly staring at Toombs, I jerk my head Rax’s way while maintaining the rhythm. Toombs’s grimace eases into neutral.

He keeps his eyes on me for several measures, maybe searching for the same resolve I was only moments ago. Rax tries again. This time, Toombs answers with a simple but steady and strong riff. Just like him. He turns around, and the two guitarists engage in a tense but moving audio dance. Back and forth they go, like they have onstage a hundred times before, but today, the strain is palpable. The distance is obvious. The hurt is evident.

But the first step in solving a problem is to acknowledge it. They might not have done it with words, but Toombs’s and Rax’s music makes it clear there’s at least a
possibility
for forgiveness on both sides, even if it’s not immediately forthcoming.

That’s a badly needed breath of fresh air in this stifling crypt of misunderstandings, deception, and flat-out lies.

In true Letty fashion, our lead singer breaks up the pity party with a shot of humor in the form of song:

You’re cocked and loaded

Ready to explode it

I’ll yank your trigger

Make that dick even bigger

Blow me away

Dirty roll in the hay

Shoot right through me

Hurry up and do me

Get your pork out so I can pull it

When the hammer hits the bullet

I’m coming fast

Enjoy the blast

Up against the wall

In a bathroom stall

No escape

Not looking for a date

Can’t let you go

Wanna be your ho

Cock me, baby

I’ll suck your dick…Well, maybe

She thrusts her hips suggestively at Shades, who flashes her a huge grin. A wave of relief soothes the tension in the room. Even Jillian cracks a smile. We jam on for another minute, and wrap the song with an anthem-style flourish.

When the last echo of the cymbal choke dies, the five of us look around at each other. No one speaks for a long moment, but camaraderie and the promise of new beginnings sweetens the air.

Big brass balls shining, Jillian comes forward and claps once as if to get our attention. “Okay, enough fun and games. You guys have a shitload of work to do. Rax and Letty, there’s Gatorade in the fridge. Drink it. Oh, and tame those lyrics into something usable. They’re cute, but not marketable. Jinx, I like what you did with that funky offbeat groove. I want you to explore more of that with Shades and make something bigger happen next trip through. Toombs…” She purses her lips and meets his eyes. “Carry on.”

Letty fires off a bird behind Jillian’s back as she walks out. Rax heads for the kitchen. Shades resumes his seat on the velvet couch and messes around with some runs. Letty plops down on his knee, and he plays around her.

That leaves Toombs and me. I stand, but he waves me back down.

“Sit. You look good behind your kit.”

I smooth the head of the nearest tom. “It’s nice to be back.”

“Don’t ever doubt yourself, Gianna. You’re a fucking brilliant drummer.”

“Really?” Coming from Toombs, this is the highest compliment I could ever get. Maybe it’s what I needed to hear all along.

He reaches across the rack, shadowing the floor toms, and grasps my hand. “You put my ass to shame.”

I frown. Now he’s jerking me off.

“I mean it.” His tone is genuine, his eyes proud. He rounds the set and kneels before me on my throne. He drops his voice out of Letty’s and Shades’s earshot. “I don’t know how to be in love with you, but I am, so I’d better get used to it.”

“You’re still in love with Rax too, and that’s not going away overnight, no matter how much he hurt you. So, let’s take it one beat at a time and focus on the present.”

“Okay.”

He scoots closer between my legs, and I hug him tight. He doesn’t even notice when Rax returns. In truth, neither do I.

Step Twelve:
Remember,
Spitters Are Quitters

February 28 – New Orleans, Louisiana

After three days of insane rehearsal, a brain-frying creative glut, and flaring tempers, Killer Buzz Float wraps a demo CD with nine songs. Tomorrow’s the big day when Jillian presents what we’ve done to Mr. Johnson at Megaphonia. We’re all on pins and needles, happy to be done, but anxious about the results.

Aside from co-creating brilliantly crafted hooks and haunting harmonies, Toombs and Rax haven’t exchanged more than a few grunts and “yeahs.” Though Rax has kept a lid on the drinking—at least as far as I can tell—he’s far from “fixed.” A dark storm lurks behind his eyes. I’m worried he’s heading for a snap. And if he does lose it, he’s proven many times that alcohol is his drug of choice. His number-one, go-to, quick-fixer-upper. Makes me sad to see him falling deeper into the spiral he created, but he’s the only one who can pull himself out.

Letty, Shades, and Jillian are partying in the Quarter tonight, celebrating completion of the demo. Rax is in his room with the door shut. Toombs and I are taking advantage of the relative quiet.

Not that I want Rax getting into more trouble, but selfishly, I kinda wish he’d leave so Toombs and I can cut loose. We haven’t had sex in days because of the exhausting schedule. I’m long overdue for relief, even if it requires additional detours away from my comfort zone.