by Flite, Nora
A great chance? I wiped my clammy palms on my ripped jeans. He's right, it's an amazing chance. I know all their songs by heart, but... there's no way I'm good enough, there's so much more than being able to repeat back a song. If I audition, I'll look like an asshole.
“—an hour,” he was saying, my brain so fogged I missed the start of his sentence. “I know you brought your guitar, grab it and take it with you.”
“Sorry, what?”
“You've got an hour to get ready, they're doing it before we all drive out to the next pit stop.”
“Sean,” I blurted, climbing to my feet in a hurry. “Listen, wait, I can't do this.”
His piercing glinted as he wrinkled his forehead. “What? Why?”
“I just—come on!” I said, giggling uncomfortably. “It's me, I'm not a rockstar!”
“You've played in bands before,” he said.
“Garage bands, joke bands, nothing serious.”
“And I've seen you listening to Four and a Half Headstones since they launched.”
I couldn't stop shaking my head.
Sean opened his mouth, then halted. Eyeing the other members, he jerked his head at the door. “Give us a minute, guys.”
They trundled out, leaving me alone with my brother. The air in the bus felt sticky. “Sean—”
“Lola,” he cut me off, burying his hands in his pockets. “Do you not get it? This is a huge opportunity, why are you sabotaging yourself?”
I let my hands fall to my hips. “I'm not, I'm just...” I'm just scared. “There's someone else here who'll get the position, someone better.”
“I don't get it,” he muttered, looking everywhere but at me. “I thought you wanted to make music, to become a star. I figured that was the fucking point of all of this.”
“I do want to! Sean, I really do, I'm just not ready for it. Not right now.”
Tightening his jaw, my brother brushed past me. “You're right,” he said, tongue coated in acid. “I guess you're not.” He left me alone on the bus, not once looking back.
For some time, I stared after him. My mind was as messy as my stomach. Gripping the seat, I crushed the slippery material until it squeaked.
I'd wanted to bail when he suggested I dare audition for Headstones. Wanted to just run, or for him to throw up his hands and accept that I wasn't ready.
Why did I feel so awful after he'd done just that?
Kicking my heel into the side of a small table, I grit my molars. God dammit. God fucking dammit.
Was he right? Was I giving up an opportunity? No, it'd be an opportunity if there was any chance I could get the spot, but... Sean can't really think it's in my reach.
But then, why tell me about it if he didn't?
My temples were killing me. Being in the bus was too much, the air smothering. Stumbling from the doors, I took a deep breath in until my ribs ached.
Around me, I heard people laughing, talking casually as they prepared for the drive ahead. It was warm, and I was sweaty, but I wasn't thinking about the weather.
I have one hour, he said. One hour to decide if I'm going to take a shot at becoming the guitarist for god damn fucking Four and a Half Headstones.
A band I'd been obsessed with since the start.
Maybe I do have a chance. This tour, these people, this isn't like a world-wide announcement with applicants coming all over to audition. I could... I could actually have a chance here!
Wiping my hair from my eyes, I began the trek back towards Barbed Fire's van.
If I was going to do anything...
I would need my guitar.
****
They'd rented out the back room of a nearby gas station. The line of people coming out of the door was like a beacon.
On the one hand, I thought to myself, I don't need to go ask Sean for directions on where the audition is happening. However, it looks like every single person who can hold a guitar showed up. And some who can't. Rubbing my neck, I hooked my case over my shoulder, attempting to act casual as I got in line.
Everyone was talking, the vibe excited and hyped. I heard snippets about the fight, comments from people who were only there for a chance to meet the band.
With the sun beating down on my shoulders, I started to second guess my decision. At this rate, I'll pass out before I get inside. Jesus, there's no way they'll get through all these people.
A movement at the station door drew my eyes. There was a woman, her hair wild red curls that made her skin ghostly. Most of her was hidden under a giant hat, sunglasses bigger than a life size fly's eyes. On ankle-breaking heels, she was inching down the line, whispering into the ears of the gathered people.
I didn't know what she was saying. Leaning in, she'd either scribble on a clipboard in her arms, or wave the person away.
The murmurs grew as the line shortened. Disgruntled men and women melted to the sidelines as the mystery red-head cut through.
What's happening, what is she saying? Why are people leaving? The closer she got to me, the tighter my stomach became. The foreboding was turning my knuckles white, I had to drop my guitar to my hip. Fuck, don't come here, don't talk to me. Somehow, I was sure if she talked to me, she'd say something that would make me have to leave.
She'd ruin my chance.
The woman whispered to the guy in front of me, a lanky dude who listened... then whispered back. A single word, I thought, but I didn't catch it.
She straightened, nodded, asked him his name and scribbled something down. He remained where he was, and she set those giant glasses on me.
I could see myself in the reflection. I looked paler than she even did. Calm down, just chill out.
Her lips, perfect rubies, spread in a tiny smile. I always wondered how some women managed to look so put together on the road. Bending low, her heels making her taller than me, I felt her breath tickle my ear. “Hey there,” she whispered, “I need to ask you something. Real quick. 'Kay?”
Swallowing, I gave a sharp nod. “Uh, sure, ask me anything.” I didn't know who she was, but she was obviously working for the band in some capacity. Could she be their manager? I was familiar with the band's music, not their business details.
“Right,” she said, pen tapping her clipboard. “This is just so we can weed down to the people Drezden wants to listen to. Answer honestly, one word if you can. What do you think is the most important thing you need to be a good guitarist?”
Oh, shit, I thought quickly. Why didn't I eavesdrop on the guy in front of me? Fuck fuck fuck... what's the most important thing you need to be a good guitarist? What kind of question is that?
She was staring at me, no longer smiling. Impatience was written on her soft features, gravel crunching under her fidgeting heels. I needed to say something, and I needed to do it soon.
But what could she want to hear?
No, what could Drezden want to hear? Would my answer be something he'd approve of, could it get me into that audition? My skull felt swollen, too many worries bubbling up. The answer I would give would wreck me or reward me.
I didn't know much about Drezden beyond how he sounded when he was singing. Well, I know he beat up Johnny Muse last night. That doesn't help me. My mind was blank. I couldn't plot out the right thing to say.
Staring at the red-head, I licked my lips with my dry tongue. The word that left me had a mind of its own, escaping from my subconscious before I could try and stop it. “Honesty.”
The way she twisted her mouth, leaning away from me, it sank my heart. That was not the look of someone who was happy with my answer. “Sorry, what do you mean?”
Sweat crept down my spine. It was even collecting uncomfortably under my breasts. What did I mean? It had just come out, but... But it's true, I thought to myself. It's actually kind of true. “Uh, well. I think a good guitar player is someone who is honest with themself, with the music. If that makes sense?”
Her frown said it didn't. “Hm. Drezden asked me to look for something else.”
/>
My skin was cold. Defeat was worming into my core; I'd fucked my answer up, destroyed my chance. I was positive I had. “Oh. I—can I answer again?”
She hesitated, pen twisting between her elegant fingers. “What's your name?”
“Lola Cooper.”
“Cooper,” she said, lifting her glasses to squint at me. “You're Sean's sister, aren't you?”
Hoisting my guitar, I nodded. “Yeah, you called it.” Right, didn't he say he talked to the band's manager earlier? This must be her!
Considering me in a new light, one I wasn't sure I liked, she slid her sunglasses back onto her nose. The pen was loud as she wrote something down. “Stay here, it'll take maybe twenty minutes before you get in.”
My jaw slid open as I understood. I wanted to thank her, but she was moving down the line that had formed behind me. Many more people would be kicked out before she was done.
I'm actually going to get in there, I'm doing this, I thought in amazement. A laugh sprung free, making me cover my mouth to stifle it. Holy shit. This is really going down.
I'd been so nervous, so unsure about going for the audition. It was funny, thinking about arguing with my brother over even bothering to try. But when that woman had appeared, when my opportunity looked like it would be snuffed, I'd felt genuine sadness.
I was joyous with where I was, even if it meant standing in the boiling sun for a bit longer.
How could I have almost let this chance slip by?
Chapter Two.
Drezden
I drummed my fingers on the table, studying the bandage wrapped around the skinned markings from the night before. Maybe I should just wrap the other hand, too. People are already acting like I boxed Johnny, might as well roll with it.
“Drez?”
Looking up, I met Porter's eyes. He was peering at me, reminding me of what I was supposed to be doing. In the middle of that filthy backroom, the kid whose name I'd already forgotten was standing there with a stupid grin, eager to hear what I had to say about his playing. He'd strummed for a few minutes, but I'd formed my opinion about his skill on the first pluck.
Still, I'd let him keep going. Maybe that had been cruel.
“Drez,” Porter said again, prompting me. “What did you think about Renold's playing?”
Renold, right. Guess that was the kid's name. “Next.” It wasn't a hard word, it was all that I was required to say.
The guitarist's face morphed, falling low as he dragged himself out the door. Instantly, my band was on me. “What the hell, man?” Colt asked, his fist slamming down on the table. “The guy was good!”
“Seriously,” Porter sighed, bare arms flexing as he folded them tight. Even with the tattoos crossing his dark skin, he looked like a pouting child. “We need to get on the road, pick a god damn guitarist already!”
“None of them have been right,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my smokes. A glare from Porter stopped me. “Look, sorry, but I already said I wouldn't replace Johnny with just any fucking kid who can tug some strings.”
Colt snorted, pointedly turning his head so I could see the bandage stuck by his ear. Someone had managed to tear one of the drummer's gauges in the brawl around subduing Johnny. “You need to find someone, Drez. I'd like it if my only trophy from this tour didn't turn out to be a fucking scar.”
Wrinkling my nose, I went to argue, but a knock on the door interrupted us. We'd been auditioning people for over an hour. I knew we needed to move. I also wondered if we were hitting the end of the pack. Was this really the best the caravan of groupies and roadies had to offer? Is Brenda even weeding the guys out that would just be wasting my time? “Come in,” I grunted.
The girl who pushed through the door looked young. She was lean in all the right places, round in the rest. There was a hint of pink on her bare shoulders from too much sun. My gaze went to the way her jeans fit her tightly, but ultimately, I stared at the guitar case.
“Uh, hey,” she said, crystal eyes flicking between all of us one by one. “I'm here to audition—I guess that's obvious, though. Uh. Yeah.”
Porter shot me a glance, then leaned forward over the table where we were all seated. The room was small enough that the woman wasn't more than four, five arms away. “What's your name?”
“Lola,” she said, unclasping the case on the floor. The guitar inside was violet, a fender stratocaster that she slipped out, and on, with casual familiarity. For a second she looked around, lost. Colt read her movements.
The drummer stood up, plugging the guitar into the nearby amp. “You been playing a while?”
Lola shrugged, fingers gliding over the pegs, tweaking them easily. Her first strum as she tuned made me sit up straighter. “I guess so. I've been playing since I was little, my brother taught me a lot.”
“Yeah?” Colt asked, dropping back beside me. His face was indulgent; wistful. “I learned from my brother, too. Alright, you must know a song or two of ours. Or I hope so. You have a preference on what you wanna play?”
The young woman looked my way, fixing me with a nervous smile. “Actually,” Lola said, “I know all your songs. Do you guys want to pick?”
I felt Colt looking at me, but I was busy staring Lola down. It was a bold claim, saying she knew all our songs. Encouraging, but big talk doesn't cut it here.
“Alright,” Colt said, eyes narrowing into slits. I suspected he was becoming as curious as me about the girl. “Guess that makes it easy. How about you play the start of Black Grit—”
“Tuesday Left Behind.” It was with brisk intensity that I cut my drummer off. Linking my fingers, I leaned across the table. The blue in Lola's eyes swelled, drawing me in. “Play that one.”
Lola's lips curled, winding down into a soft pout. “That's one of your early ones.”
I nodded, a scant movement. “You said you knew all of them.” I didn't like people who bragged but couldn't back it up. Was she bluffing? Figures, kid like her, coming in here and trying to impress us with some bullshit like that. Fuck.
Lola grazed her thumb over her guitar strings. I expected her to admit she didn't know the song. It wouldn't have surprised me, it was from the first CD we'd released as a band. Hardly our most popular song.
Her pick came down, fingers spinning over the wires to produce the first note from Tuesday Left Behind. It was clear, hanging in the air with the perfect amount of anticipation.
Then, Lola began to play.
Her eyes were closed, hiding away her deep sapphires from my seeking gaze. With perfect ease, she played the song that I had asked. She played it as good as Johnny ever had.
Better than he'd been playing lately, really.
Lola's hands embraced her guitar's neck, gliding along to coerce it to make bits of music that sank into my ears. They burrowed in, grinding through my skin and to my very bone.
She was good. She was god damn good.
I realized I was squeezing my thighs under the table. Shifting in place, I saw Colt and Porter both staring at me. Those were pointed looks, looks that said 'holy shit, are you hearing this?'
I am, I'm hearing it, but I want more than just a mimic. Waving at her to stop hurt me in a funny way. “That's enough, alright.”
She faltered, concern showing like a shadow on her soft jaw. The song still reverberated in my flesh. “Sorry, did I do something wrong?” she asked.
The rest of the band was watching me. They were pissed I'd cut the kid off, but I didn't care. There was more that I wanted here. I was desperate to know if Lola was what I'd been hoping for. Impatience clawed at me to find out fast. “You know our music, good. I want you to play something else.”
“I—something else?”
Porter pushed his lower jaw out. Him, Colt, they had already decided this girl was what we needed. It wasn't so simple, though. Not to me. “I want you to play anything you want. Just go for it, show me what makes you want to create music in the first place.”
It made me sound fucking insane,
I was sure of that. I was ready for the kid to open her mouth and fumble. Maybe she'd even turn and walk out the door.
I had my reasons, though. This was what would separate those who played from those who played. Johnny had been good, I'd never say otherwise. When I needed someone for our first big show, when playing guitar myself while singing wasn't cutting it, he'd come forward. He'd killed that audition, it'd been the start of something real for all of us.
He just never had the drive. It was what kept him from performing as best as he could at every single show. He didn't care about creating music.
Fucker just wanted to be on stage. Let's see if this girl is different.
Lola was watching me. Not with the deer in headlights look I expected, no. Her eyes were shining like new frost, the face of a woman who was excited.
It was contagious.
Before she started, I noticed I was hunching forward and holding my breath.
Her fingers came down, tickling the strings. It was a sharp movement, sound bursting in my brain like a fresh orange. Just as I was feeling my pulse quicken, adjusting to the intensity of her strums, Lola came to life.
Deep curls, the song she played tugged at the very roots of my hair. Lower and lower it went, drilling so hard into my body that I had to shift on my chair.
She was good. So fucking good, I was falling into the trap of her music. It wrapped me tight, tempting me to sink in and let her keep going.
Lola's eyes were closed, lower lip tucked just slightly in her teeth. She was living in that moment like it was her last. I knew that look. The body language of someone in their own creative trance.
Every small movement she made was intentional. She traveled across the guitar, a land she'd been living in all her life. There was no part of the instrument, the song, that was a mystery to her.
Who is this girl? I wondered, noting I was gripping the edge of the table hard enough to turn my finger tips white. Her poise was distracting, back arched into a high speed curve. The muscles on her lower arms flexing deliciously with each note. A dark, intricate tattoo writhed on her right one.
