by Nora Flite
“They're going to need to find a new one, and fast,” my brother said.
“Yeah, fast.” I smoothed my messy dark hair. The humidity had turned it into a wild mane. “Real fast. Where are they going to find a guitarist before the next show?”
No one said anything. Baffled, I raised my eyes, looking from each member to the next. Sean was smiling, it made my stomach twist. “Oh no,” I said, my back going straight as a rod. “I can't, I'm not anywhere near good enough to be in their band!”
Sean slid out of his seat, shoving Shark aside as he did so. “Lola, come on. You're the sister of the lead guitarist in Barbed Fire! I taught you everything you know.” He came to stand over me, grasping my shoulders like it'd calm me down.
I wasn't ready to be calm.
“Shit,” I said to no one. “Holy shit.” He wasn't kidding when he said he'd taught me everything I knew. The advantage to being the younger sister of a talented guitarist was you could learn a lot. The downside?
Well, we couldn't both be the lead guitarist in the same band.
I'd never get to play with Barbed Fire. The closest I'd ever come was carting their equipment onto the stage at their shows. And now my brother was trying to get me to go and try out for the guitarist in fucking Four and a Half Headstones?
“Shit,” I said again. I was saying it a lot.
Giving me one more squeeze, he patted me so roughly it shook my skull. “The auditions are going on today. I already went and talked to their manager when I heard what was going on. You've got a great chance here, Lola.”
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 eyebrow piercing glinted as he wrinkled his forehead. “What? Why?”
“I just—come on!” I said, giggling uncomfortably. “It's me, I'm not a rock star!”
“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. Great job, I told myself. You wanted him to quit pushing you to do this, and you got your way. Kicking my heel into the side of the small table between the seats, I grit my molars.
Fucking dammit.
He claimed I was giving up an opportunity—sabotaging myself. Was he right? Sean can't really think I'd pass this audition. But then, why tell me about it if he didn't? My brother knew me deeply and truly. If I ever questioned my skills, he was there to correct me. To boost me.
He believed in me.
So why didn't I?
Being in the bus was too much, the air was thick in my lungs. Clawing at the already torn seats, I tripped out the door and into the air. Gripping my knees, I hung my chin and took a deep breath—then another. I did that 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 freaking Four and a Half Headstones.
A band I'd been obsessed with since their first song.
Maybe I do have a chance. This isn't like a world-wide announcement with applicants coming all over to audition. We're in the middle of a tour, slim pickings. 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 trail of bread crumbs.
On the one hand, I thought to myself, I don't need to go ask Sean for directions to where the audition is happening. But 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 last night, or comments from people who admitted they were only auditioning so they could 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. There's no way they'll get through all these people!
A movement up ahead at the gas station door drew my eyes. There was a woman, her hair all wild red curls that made her skin ghostly in comparison. Most of her was hidden under a giant sun hat, sunglasses gleaming where they perched on her elegant nose.
She was inching down the line in a pair of ankle-breaking heels, whispering into the ears of the gathered people. 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 unease was turning my knuckles white, I had to drop my guitar to my hip just to keep a hold on it.
Fuck, don't come here, don't talk to me. Somehow, I was sure if she spoke to me, she'd tell me 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.
The woman straightened, nodded, asked him his name and scribbled something down. He remained where he was, and then she set those giant mirrored 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 during tours in spite of all the traveling and time 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,” s
he 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?
My skull felt swollen, too many worries bubbling up. The answer I'd 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 much. My mind was blank. I couldn't plot out anything worth saying.
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 themselves, 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. “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, that's 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 trying out. 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 crushed to bits, I'd felt genuine sadness.
Even if it meant standing in the boiling sun for a bit longer, I'd do it.
I'd stand here until I was burnt to a crisp and my fingers fell off from how hard I was squeezing my guitar. This was it. This was the chance I'd always been waiting for.
How could I have almost let it slip by?
- Chapter Three -
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 this filthy backroom stood a kid whose name I'd already forgotten. He was standing there wearing 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. Huh. I'd already forgotten his name the second he'd mentioned it. He just wasn't worth remembering. With a quick scan of the room, I said, “Next.”
The guitarist's face morphed, falling low. I wondered if he was going to argue with me—he wouldn't have been the first. In the end, he just limped out the door and didn't look back.
The moment we were alone again, my band was on me. “What the hell, man?” Colt asked, his fist slamming down on the table. “That 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 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 last night; just another casualty from my decision to banish Johnny. “You need to find someone, Drez. I'm not exactly keen on letting a new scar be all I gain from this tour.”
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 get back on the road, and I also wondered if we were hitting the end of the pack. Is Brenda even weeding out the time wasters?
What if she was, and this was really the best the roadie and groupie riffraff had to offer?
“Come in,” I grunted.
Her fingers came first, curling around the edge of the door. Then it was her too-big and too-blue eyes that joined the party. She was lean in all the right places, round in the rest. There was a hint of pink on her bare shoulders from an abundance of sun.
On impulse, my gaze fixated on the way her jeans fit her tightly. They were torn in places, a sign of someone who was used to working hard. They also hinted at the perfect curve of her ass.
But ultimately?
I was busy staring at her guitar case.
“Uh, hey,” she said, wide pupils flicking between all of us one by one. “I'm here to audition—I guess that's obvious, though.” Pointedly, she tugged the strap of her instrument's case.
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 or 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 like she was lost.
Colt read her movements, standing up and plugging the guitar into the nearby amp. “You been playing a while?” he asked.
She shrugged, fingers gliding over the guitar pegs, tweaking them easily. I'd been slouching since this fiasco began; 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, if you're planning to join us on stage. 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 of your songs. Do you guys want to pick?”
I felt everyone 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—”
“Tuesda
y 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 like a river that planned to drown me. “Play that one.”
Her lips curled, winding down into a cheeky grin. I had the funniest idea that she was toying with me—or that she knew something I didn't. “That's one of your early ones," she said.
I nodded, a scant movement. “You said you know all of them.” Is she bluffing? Coming in here and trying to impress us with some bullshit about knowing all our music?
I hated arrogant people who couldn't back up their claims. If Lola was fucking with me, I'd—what? Be disappointed? In a way, yeah, I thought with sudden confusion. There's something about her... something that I want to be real.
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. It was unknown, relatively unpopular. I'd given her a challenge I hadn't bothered to give anyone else.
I expected her to fail.
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 for. She played it as good as Johnny ever had. Far better than he'd been playing lately, really.
Lola's hands embraced her guitar's neck, gliding along to coerce it into making bits of music that sank into my ears. They burrowed inside, grinding through my skin and down to my very bones.
She was good. She was 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. I could have listened to her for hours. “That's enough, alright.”
