The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)(9)

They were driving me out of my f*cking mind.

We’d made a deal before hiring the next drummer that everyone had to agree one hundred percent on someone and vote with a unanimous thumbs-up before we let the next guy in. I hadn’t been too keen on the last drummer we’d had from the beginning. There’d just been something skeevy about him that had rubbed me wrong. But he could carry a beat so I hadn’t balked when Gally had brought him onboard. I was easygoing like that.

Oh, you have someone in mind? Fine, he’s in.

Well, not anymore. Rock had cured me of that blind naivety when he’d tried to take out one of my very good friends. Turned out, he was a pyro to boot who’d killed a good portion of his family in a house fire years ago (called familicide, by the way). So, he was currently rotting away behind bars and serving hard time, while the rest of us were stuck in the lurch, with four days left to find a new drummer, or we wouldn’t be able to play our usual Friday night gig...for the sixth weekend in a row.

This was the second day of tryouts—we’d advertised keeping it open for three—and the three of us had been unable to agree on a single damn drummer yet. Not one freaking person.

I was holding out for talent and, you know, the non-pyro vibe—scarily enough, there’d been a couple of those. Gally seemed fixated on image. No dreads, too much face metal, not enough tattoos. Didn’t matter how they sounded; he just wanted a certain look...or gender, apparently, since he hadn’t bothered to listen to the one girl who’d come in.

And Heath...yeah, Heath didn’t give an explanation. He just shook his head yes or no. Maybe he was going on gut feeling alone. Who knew? It was hard to tell with him.

I had to admit, no one had impressed me enough to flip up my skirt either, but there’d been a handful I would’ve settled for, if my two f*cking bandmates hadn’t immediately nixed them.

I was beginning to think this little democracy thing we had going was the worst idea ever when Gally flopped into a chair and groaned as he smoothed his hands up either side of his Mohawk—which he’d dyed orange this week—as if to make sure it was still in place.

“This f*cking sucks. I say we call it quits for the day.”

Yes. That was about the only thing I could agree with right now. I motioned toward Heath. “Clear’em out.”

As Heath pulled the strap of his guitar over his head and set his baby down before heading for the door, I unhooked myself from my Taylor and rolled my shoulders to ease knotted muscle. We hadn’t had a break in hours, and I could feel it.

“Reconvene here at eight?” I asked the guys when Heath returned from sending all the applicants in the hall away.

“Re—what?” Gally asked, sending me a confused scowl with his mouth fallen open and eyes squinted.

I refrained from the long, tired sigh caught in my chest. “Meet,” I said. “Do you guys want to meet back here at eight...in the morning?”

Gally shook his head. “Why the f*ck didn’t you just say that the first time?”

Oh my God, I really needed to get out of here.

This time, I did sigh. After cupping the back of my neck in both hands, to hopefully keep all the veins in it from exploding, I ground out, “See you in the morning.”

I zipped my guitar into its case, flung the strap over my shoulder so the Taylor rested against my back, and hurried for the exit.

I’d never really connected with anyone in the band before. After working a night shift alongside Heath for over two years as a package handler at a local shipping warehouse, I’d finally coaxed out of him during a break one night that he liked to play guitar. When I suggested we hang out and jam some time, he hadn’t said no.

Starting an actual band had been about the furthest thing from my mind at that point. But Heath’s cousin’s boyfriend at the time—aka Billy Galloway—had heard us play one night and he’d butted his way into our sessions, saying he knew a drummer, and so...our garage days had begun.

Friends would stop by to listen to us. It still hadn’t occurred to me to start an actual band until one of Gally’s many women had told us we would be famous someday. From that point on, all Gally and Rock could talk about was getting bigger.

Since neither of them had the wherewithal to actually do anything about it, I’d dug into the research scene and figured out what we needed to do to start.

The naming thing had taken us over a week. That had almost been a bigger headache to survive than finding a new drummer. But we’d finally been able to settle on Non-Castrato. Next was finding a place to perform. After striking out at nightclubs that were well known for taking on new talent and giving them a chance to show their stuff, I took a leap of faith and contacted the newbie owner of Forbidden. The place had never had anything above jukebox music in its bar before, but I’d already been batting zero. I had nothing to lose by simply asking.

After cornering Pick Ryan in his office, I’d blurted out my request, and I have no idea why—I must’ve caught the guy on a good day or something—but he’d agreed to let us play in his club. It might’ve had something to do with me saying we’d play for free and that I’d come to work for him as a bartender since that’s what he’d needed at the time, but whatever. He’d agreed!

So I found myself quitting the package handling job to work for Pick and starting this music venture with basically three strangers. I hadn’t regretted it once, though, not through any of the long hours or headaches or pretty much having to set up all the gigs and create any original song we sang. It was a challenge I loved and a place I knew I belonged as soon as I’d stepped into the position.