Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(25)

Yep. We were already set for the Industrial Grunge party tomorrow. And we would plan Hannah an amazing baby shower. But the 70’s party? Would be epic.

My thoughts flashed immediately to Darren.

He would be there.

And that would seal the friends deal. No sex on a stick for me. Because after I let my inner 70’s loose? He’d think I was certifiable.





Darren…

Waiting? The worst part.

The audition yesterday had gone great. At least I thought it had.

But artists needed to mesh to work together. A rare magic flowed between the best musicians. Separated out the icons from the rest. And Dino Mathis was a rising star. So whatever he wanted? Happened.

Nervous energy cranked tighter. From only the audition?

I blew out a hard breath. Didn’t even want to consider what else it might be.

Instead, I grabbed the brushes I’d auditioned with. Drove to Nick’s. Opened the garage. Grabbed my favorite drumsticks from their case. Took a seat. Then took aim.

During the basic warmup, cold air chilled my bare arms. But at some point after I walked in, I must have turned on the heater. It glowed red from across the garage. Must’ve tuned my drumheads too—always did. But I didn’t specifically remember that either.

Eyelids falling closed, muscle-memory flowed through my arms and legs, translating into familiar sounds. Up, down, cross-over, cross-under, forward, back, crisscross, clockwise, counterclockwise. Single-stroke roll. Double-stroke roll. Buzz roll.

Though the tempo increased, my pulse began to calm as I ran through my ingrained patterns.

Then I set the sticks down and grabbed my brushes as yesterday’s session replayed in my mind: slower tempo, more fluid rhythm.

With my left hand, brush held palm up, I marked time on the snare drumhead with an easy quarter-note pulse. I struck with my right, then drew back diagonally.

Left-hand tap.

Right-hand arc, sweep.

On and on the session played out.

Delayed eighth note after-beat.

Left-hand sweep.

Cymbal brush scrape.

Bass drum soft pedal.

Dino had been in the sound booth, arms crossed, expression intent—almost the entire time. He, his saxophone player, his manager, and the sound engineer had given me sheet music. I’d played it once through, then repeated by memory with my eyes closed, adding subtle improv elements where I thought the music could handle it.

When I’d opened my eyes, they’d leaned in toward one another, talking animatedly.

Then the manager stepped out to give me additional sheets of music. Faster tempo. More complicated changeups. And I demonstrated my skills all over again.

After a few rounds, Dino and his bandmate joined me. Well, actually, Dino began, and we joined him.

I exhaled, reliving the moment when I’d done my best to complement the jazz great.

Then the moment was over. The memory faded.

The garage grew silent.

But an electric buzz still hummed through my veins.

Kiki? No. Not going there.

I grabbed my sticks again. Only this time I unleashed a heavy rock rhythm. Needed to work out whatever had me on edge.

Before long, sweat broke out on my skin. I started breathing heavy. Muscles began to burn: shins, forearms, biceps, shoulders. Over and over, wood stick met drum skin, vibrations radiating up my arms, into my chest.

I became the rhythm.

So many things in my life would be better if Dino wanted me as his studio drummer. Graduating next year would be a technicality—wouldn’t even need to finish if Dino wanted me right away. No more juggling two jobs to make ends meet; money would be a nonissue.

I could be home every night. Maybe things with Logan would improve.

There might even be a chance for a social life again.

Not a damn thing in my control about it now, though. I closed my eyes and gave myself over to the punishing rhythm. Sequences I’d practiced over the years flowed from my body through my kit and echoed off the walls.

Time warped. It usually did when I jammed by myself. What felt like a blink ended up being an hour, sometimes more. Years ago, I played for thirteen straight, not realizing it.

But my tight schedule didn’t allow any room for not caring about time. Needing to stretch my legs, I stood from the stool, grabbed a water from the minifridge, then leaned over and pulled my phone from my jacket pocket.

When I clicked the side button, it lit up with the time, 4:27 p.m., and a text alert—from Kiki.

I stretched my neck left, then right, thinking about the rest of the night. I had just enough time to make it home, change, then head over to the new Eiselmann’s Gallery for the setup of the Industrial Grunge party.

I stowed my favorite sticks into the box I’d made for them long ago. Cedar. Kept the elements away from the wood. And beat up as the sticks were, they were a part of my past: the original tools that helped me find what I loved about music. And I took care of them—I’d broken plenty of sticks, but never these—because they’d taken such good care of me.

Kiki’s message remained in my phone. Unread. But it crept into my thoughts.

Still, I downed the rest of my water, then tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. I punched the garage code into the keypad and waited until it closed securely.

Phone in hand, I took a lung-clearing breath before I walked to the end of the driveway. I crossed the street, opened my truck, then took a seat and shut the door. Its clang reverberated through the cab.