The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7) (6 page)

I nearly didn’t make it in time. It was almost one in the afternoon by the time I skidded into the studio, hoping they hadn’t closed the auditions yet. Heading directly to the hallway where I’d waited in line for hours the day before, my relief soared when I saw six guys still loitering outside the auditioning room.

All half dozen of them glanced over to narrow their eyes. It wasn’t nearly the reception I’d received from my fellow drummers yesterday, because today, they saw a guy.

They saw competition.

Chauvinist assholes.

“This the line for Non-Castrato?” I asked.

One guy was gracious enough to nod, but that was it. The others went back to ignoring me.

Only two other people showed up to wait in line after me, and this was their last day, so shit, I was the third to last person to try out. For some reason, that felt like a bad omen.

But I stuck it out anyway. I’d gone too far to quit now. This time, dammit, I
was
going to play with them before they told me to “git.”

An hour of waiting later, it was my turn. I entered, not at all nervous. Maybe it was because I was hiding behind my mask. Maybe it was because they’d already rejected me, and things could only go up from there. Or maybe I just felt that confident.

I had no idea what was causing it, everything just seemed...
right
this time around. Even more right than last time.

The room was exactly the same, and the guys were still loitering in their same basic places they’d been the day before. But today, Galloway ignored me and seemed to be sulking as he fiddled with the tuning pegs on his guitar.

Hart took charge and nodded a greeting. “Hey, man. What’s your name?”

Score!

I’d already gotten further on this audition than I had in the first one. And the man guise was obviously working; he’d called me
man
!

Jazzed, I cleared my throat and used the lowest voice I could muster, even though it was already low for a woman’s voice. “Call me Sticks.”

“Sticks?” Galloway snorted, finally glancing up. “Wow. That’s original.”

Still miffed over the way he’d treated me yesterday, I was tempted to shove my drumsticks up his ass. But I didn’t want to do such permanent, scarring damage to my babies—even though they were my non-pink backup pair—so I managed to contain myself enough to send him a bored glance. “About as original as a douchebag bassist.”

Holden let out a belly laugh. When Galloway glared his way, Holden only grinned. “Burn,” he informed his bandmate.

“Screw you,” Galloway mumbled to me...or maybe to Holden, I wasn’t sure which. Probably both of us.

Hart cracked a half smile. “Well, you can already take Gally’s shit and dish it right back. That’s a must. Let’s see what you can do with those sticks of yours.” He nodded toward the drum set. “You can handle a five-piece, I assume.”

What idiot couldn’t handle a five-piece? I arched one of my fake eyebrows, still amazed Jodi had been able to rig my mask so I could manage facial expressions too. “Only since I was six.”

With a horrified shudder, Hart shook his head. “You’d be amazed by the lack of talent we’ve seen come through here these past few days.”

I nodded, understanding. “Well, I can manage any drum set up you put before me.”

He smiled, and damn...
that smile
. I probably shouldn’t look at him when he smiled. Way too dangerous.

“Good,” he said, thrilling me with his approval. “I want to try a delayed backbeat with a quick blast during the chorus, then double time to finish it up.”

Pulling my drumsticks from my back pocket, I saluted him. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to, drill sergeant.”

With another half-smile, he shook his head. “Forrest Gump. Funny. In that case, we’re going to play ‘Run, Daddy, Run.’ You familiar with that one?”

Was I familiar?

“Pfft.” It took everything I had not to roll my eyes. “I’m familiar with every song you guys have ever produced.”

Hart smiled. “Well, all right then.” He motioned me toward the stool. “Count us off.”

After seating myself, I took a deep breath, lifted my hands into position, and began with the ride cymbal, setting the tempo.

When I added the snare and bass drums, the guitars joined me, completely in sync with the rhythm I set. A smile spread across my face, relief ballooning inside me until I was ingesting my excitement with each breath.

Even if I ended up totally bombing this audition, I was here,
right now
, living my dream. I was jamming with Non-Castrato. For a minute, I forgot what jerks they were and that I was supposed to hate them.

It was euphoria.

Forcing my lungs to function, I exhaled and sucked in more air. By the time Hart leaned in toward the microphone and began to sing, I already had an adrenaline buzz going, but the sound of his voice sent another spike through me. There was just something about the way he sang. Made me wet in the panties every time.

Yeah, it seemed all kinds of wrong to soak my man panties with girlish enthusiasm, but there you had it.

The music inspired me, flowing through my bloodstream. I was actually living it, morphing into it.

Becoming one with the drum kit, I switched from the ride cymbal to the hi-hat when Hart changed from one passage to the next, giving the song a little extra punch with the added lean sound. The drummer before had never done that, but I’d always thought it would sound better. So I gave it a try.

I mean, hell, what could they do? Tell me to
git
again? Been there, done that.

Except the overhead ring in the room was growing slightly obnoxious. To reduce it, I yanked a hanky from my pocket without missing a beat and draped it over my knee nearest the drumhead to muffle the snare’s reverberation. I smiled as that instantly helped. Bobbing my head, I switched into overtime as Hart had instructed. His voice rose, coming to a crescendo.

Though I’d never heard one in this song before, I hit the crash cymbal when he peaked and added a strong kick to the bass drum pedal.

The other members stopped playing, and it was over. An echo of guitars, drum, and Hart’s voice continued to resonate through the room, filling it with a heaviness that made me bite the inside of my lip and hold my breath.

All three band members turned to look at me.

“You brought in the hi-hat in the middle of that second verse,” Hart finally said. His stare wasn’t exactly accusatory, but it sure as hell wasn’t reassuring either.

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so carried away, adding my personal touch quite so soon.

But it had felt so right at the time.

I gave a slow nod. “Uh, yeah. It just seemed...fitting.” Growing more nervous, I swiped the hanky from my knee to mop my damp brow, only to remember the sweat wasn’t showing on the outside of my mask.

“And the crash cymbal at the end,” Holden spoke up. “That was new.”

“Well...” I cleared my throat. “You know...I thought...why not?”

“Why not?” Galloway repeated tonelessly, shaking his head as he glanced at Hart and Holden. Then he burst out, “Shit, yeah. Why the fuck not! Christ, that was fucking
awesome
.”

Holden nodded, agreeing with Galloway.

I nearly peed my pants. “Really? You liked it?” Of course, they liked it. I had totally kicked ass. But to hear them actually admit it aloud... Man, you have no idea how much of a rush that gave me.

“I loved it,” Holden said. His grin was goofy but proud. “I didn’t think we’d ever find anyone half as good as Rock was.”

“But goddamn, if you’re not
twice
as good,” Galloway exploded. “You got an ear for this shit, Sticks. A fucking brilliant ear.”

Thank God for my mask; I was blushing so hard my true face had to be tomato red right now. Glad I could look cool and collected, I lifted my eyebrows at Asher Hart, who had yet to comment.

Narrowing his eyes as if he didn’t trust my talent and that one song had been a fluke for me, he murmured, “Let’s try ‘Sweat.’ See how well you handle that one.”

Since I’d sat out in the hallway through two days of auditions now, I knew it was rare when a drummer played more than one song with them. This had to mean something.

Something good.

Beyond excited, lightheaded and a little sick to my stomach, I nodded and wiped clammy palms on my jean-clad thighs. “No problem.”

“Sweat” was a hard-core track for them with some tricky drum moves, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. Ready to show them my mad skills, I dove right into it.

And nailed it.

Bam, I was so good I shocked myself.

As the last beat from my cymbal clanged through the air, Holden and Galloway hooted and hollered while Hart slowly turned to stare at me intently.

I squirmed under the heavy inspection. I knew Jodi had done a damn fine job of guying me up, but what if Hart saw straight through the layers? What if he knew what I really was?

Then he said, “‘Stone-Hearted,’” which was pretty much their signature song.

I grinned and began the count off.

After we finished that one, I immediately started the percussion lead-in for “Ceilings,” a new one, but my favorite, of theirs. Hart glanced back at me, and I wondered if he’d get pissy about me initiating a new song all on my own. But then a small, impressed smile crossed his lips right before he wailed out the first striking line before joining in with his guitar, on cue.

The others followed, and we played a fourth song together, just pretty much rocking out by this point.

I would’ve lit into a fifth after Asher sang the last line, but he held up a hand, stopping me.

I set my drumsticks against my knee and held my breath.

He studied me a second, then nodded. “Can you play this Friday?”

“Friday?” I echoed stupidly. Is that when their second round of callbacks started?

Hart nodded. “Yeah, that’s when our next gig is. Are you available then?”

Holy shit. “Wait. Are you saying I’m... in? I’m in the band?”

They’d been auditioning drummers for three full days. How could they just hire one of us on the spot? No one was good enough to hire after playing four songs with them. Were they?

Hart lifted his eyebrows. “Sure...if you’re interested in joining Non-Castrato.”

His green eyes were freaking hypnotizing and the dark lashes framing them made them pop even more. It didn’t seem fair that a guy should have such gorgeous eyes to go with such a gorgeous face and gorgeous lean body. But hell, put him on a stamp, and I’d write a letter to everyone I knew just for the chance to lick him.

Did they even make lickable stamps anymore? They totally should.
Asher Hart
lickable stamps.

I blinked, clearing my jumbled brain from all the lust, and what he’d just said finally made an impression in my head. And then, I was filled with a giddy radiance.

Holy shit, they really wanted to hire me after four songs.

I was
in
the band.

“Fuck,
yes
I want to join!” I exploded.

But as soon as the words crossed my lips, reality set in. Oh hell, what had I just done?

This was where I was supposed to rip off my mask and tell them all to go screw themselves. Except the words never came. The mask-ripping never commenced. Because I wanted to play that gig on Friday more than I wanted my next breath. Who cared if I was scheduled to work at Castañeda’s? Carmen owed me one. And who cared if I told one little white lie of omission, and just let them believe I was a guy? My gender had no bearing whatsoever on how well I could play. I just knew one thing: nothing was going to let me miss my first performance as a drummer in my first band.

I guessed I was going to have to be a man just a tad bit longer. I could still totally rip off the mask after Friday and make them all feel as stupid and sexist as they were for not giving me a chance when I’d been a girl. So, yeah, that’s what I’d do. Wait until after Friday to let them in on my secret.