Keep the Beat: A Band-Com for Romance Geeks

by Kata Čuić

  It’s exceptionally comical the way they individually react to my news. James is pissed he didn’t think to personally email the band first. Nate looks down at the shirt in his hand like it might bite him. Tim glances back toward the dorms, obviously mentally calculating how long it will take him to run back for a sweatshirt, and Jake suspiciously eyes his competitors because he obviously doesn’t know what they’ve done without his knowledge so far this morning.

  Restrained laughter warms me from the inside out.

  Ever the most competitive adversary, James regains his confidence first. Right after putting his shirt back on. He takes a step forward, putting him at a closer proximity to me than any of his competition. “Listen, I had these made back in the spring right after auditions. I know we haven’t always been the best of friends, but it’s senior year. We’re all drum majors now. I’m hoping we can put the past behind us and present a unified front. For the band.”

  This.

  This is exactly why I’ve always answered James’s challenges. Because I’m a starving polar bear suffering from climate change, and he’s the knowledgeable scientist who has figured out the best cut of meat to wave in front of my face to keep me engaged enough to study me at close range without being mauled to death. Much.

  “How weird.” I cock my head back and squint at him, so he’ll think he’s actually reading my mind instead of the reverse. “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

  “Really?” He squints back at me then quickly changes his entire demeanor, clapping his hands together with excitement that almost seems genuine. “I mean, great!” He extends an open palm. “Bygones then?”

  I take his hand and school my features to hide my disgust. “I was actually thinking of totally leaving the past behind and starting fresh, too. All is forgiven, but I think we can do better. Friends?”

  There’s a split-second gag reflex that he covers like a master of disguise. Which is accurate. Because he is. “Absolutely. I love it. Friends.”

  I tamp down the urge to scoff. This man loves nothing more than himself. Maybe his penis. He might love his penis more than himself. I can’t think of any other reason to engage in hook-ups so often that STIs have to be a very real risk regardless of the prophylactics used.

  We release clutches in the ominous sort of way two MMA fighters do before they unleash a reign of physical violence on each other. The handshake is a formality ensuring a fair fight. Nothing more, nothing less.

  And judging by the expressions on their faces, the other guys don’t buy our act either.

  “This has to be some sort of hallucination,” Nate murmurs, shaking his head. “I have no other explanation for this moment.”

  “I think I woke up in hell,” Tim agrees.

  “We’re all fucked,” Jake mutters.

  Right they are. Only I can’t let them know that. Yet.

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You’re acting like women.” I wink at them to show I’m joking. “All’s fair in love and band. I wish every one of you nothing but success. May the best man win!”

  They grumble and pin James down with identical glares. After the events of only the past five minutes, my smile is actually sincere. They’re going to be competing with each other so much that I won’t have to work as hard as I originally thought at all.

  Chapter Six

  The sounds of music float to my ears from every corner of this section of campus. I might not be playing, and it might be a bit of uncoordinated cacophony, but the various melodies make me smile anyway.

  It’s weird not to be a part of music sectionals. At every band camp I’ve ever attended—except my senior year of high school when I was also a drum major—field drills were interspersed with learning to play and memorizing the music that would accompany our fantastic formations.

  I’ve become institutionalized to expect it.

  So much so that I’m sorting stand songs for each section since I’m not playing right now. Dr. Kimball told the drum majors we could constructively use this time for anything we thought would help the band the most. Another test, presumably. So, I’m helping.

  I probably should be helping myself more by keeping an eye on my competition and forming new ways to mess with their minds, but frankly, I need a break from that game. It’s going to be an eternal two weeks as it is.

  Unfortunately for me, James has always been a bigger player than I ever wanted to be. He saunters into the file room and takes a seat, staring at me like he’s trying to work out his next play.

  Which is fair. I’m doing the same while pretending sorting sheet music is the most concentration-necessary task I’ve ever performed.

  “Fuck!” And … another paper cut. My hands are covered in them.

  “Wow.” He whistles, which only seems to make my throbbing fingers sting more. “I thought we were friends from now on. Is that any way to greet me when I track you down to offer you my services? You’re in a bad mood, even for you when I’m involved. Does someone need a good dicking? Is the celibacy of camp frying your brain?”

  Is he jumping right in with his plan and offering to give me a dicking, or is he still finding it difficult not to be a dick in general? It doesn’t surprise me he mistakes making someone fall in love with him for having sex.

  “I had sex with myself this morning, thank you very much, so no. Lack of orgasms isn’t an affliction I suffer from.”

  How much sex does this dude have to equate two days of band camp with a dry spell? It’s only Tuesday.

  “Masturbation is always a great stress reliever, true, but no. I don’t think it’s working for you. You can’t have sex with yourself. You’re not getting the full benefits, going it alone.”

  Okay, so … he’s actually offering. Not surprised. I also don’t want it to go that far between us, no matter how much I want to beat him at his own game.

  “Actually, sex with myself is way more relaxing than sex with someone else. I don’t have to perform or worry about anyone’s enjoyment but mine, and I also don’t have the added anxiety of someone thinking he’s fucking a miniature cow.”

  He’s silent so long that I’m worried he’s already figured out what’s really going on. Damn.

  “Sophie. Has that happened to you?”

  “No,” I snap, unable to give him the satisfaction of thinking for a second that I haven’t had great sex since him. “It’s just that I’m realistic enough to be aware that I’m not a supermodel, and the guy obviously knows it, too.”

  He shakes his head and clucks his tongue, back to his egomaniacal self as quickly as if someone had waved a magic wand. “See, I was raised to appreciate and say thank you when a friend lets me play with them.”

  Sure. Like he thanked me. By ghosting then pretending not to know me when we saw each other again. Maybe he’s just testing out my offer to forget the past. To pretend nothing ever happened between us. Fine. I can run that route.

  “I don’t know what your parents taught you, but I’m sure Alex gave you all sorts of lessons about appreciating women. You’ve been his one-night stand protégé since freshman year.”

  See? Perfect. As if we never knew each other before then.

  “Do you have a thing for Alex?”

  The question, the tone of his voice, and the abject hatred in his eyes throw me for a loop. He’s put me through the wringer before, but this is a hell of a test to determine if I meant it about forgetting the past and being friends. “Eww, what? No! Why would you even ask me that?”

  “You bring him up a lot. Admit it., This is one of those friend’s older-brother crushes, isn’t it?”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to fire back that we’re not friends, and yep, he’s definitely riling me up to get to the truth of the matter. Deep breath. “You’re actually the one who brings up your brother all the time, not me. You’ve been bragging about him ever since rookie band camp.”

  He leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly. He look
s exactly the same as he did last night when he first gave voice to his vile plan. Except … less vague through a decorative window. “I have never once said my brother’s name in the entire three years I’ve attended State until now.”

  “Yes, you have,” I automatically argue. There’s testing me, then there’s rewriting history. I told him I’d forget the past between us, but that doesn’t mean forgetting the past completely.

  “I haven’t,” he insists, shaking his head for emphasis. “Everyone who finds out my last name is Fossoway has. You included.”

  I stare at him like he’s having a mental breakdown, but maybe that’s just projection because I’m desperately combing through the files in my brain to prove him wrong.

  “Don’t bother denying it,” he spits. “The second the directors announced who I was—who my brother was—everyone looked at me differently. They treated me differently.”

  I squint my eyes, trying to see into the past with a different perspective. It’s no good. All I see is James glaring at me. Maybe he’s trying to make me have sympathy for him as a ploy to thaw my icy heart before he makes his move. That’s totally something I was going to do. Damn him.

  So much for playing the part of the woman who hasn’t had a date in a year and anything other than self-love for longer than that.

  “If you dislike being associated with your brother so much, why come to State at all?”

  Oh, my college memories would be so different if I’d never seen his face again.

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I got a full ride here. Why would I go anywhere else?”

  So, he doesn’t really dislike being associated with his famous brother. As I already knew. He just wants me to think it bothers him.

  “Okay then,” I acquiesce. This whole conversation rattles me. It’s muddling up my focus.

  He jumps up from his seat like it electrocuted him, placing his hands up in a defensive position. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. We’re supposed to be friends now, right?”

  I squint at him. If this keeps up, I’m going to have a permanent eye tic.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” He laughs as he approaches me, but there’s a nervous edge to the sound. “I am actually capable of apologizing when I’m wrong, you know.”

  No, I wouldn’t know. I’ve been seriously wronged by this guy, and the least of what he’s given me is an apology. I erase those thoughts from my mental whiteboard. “You have nothing to apologize for. Everyone is entitled to their feelings.”

  “And what are your feelings, huh?” In a blink, he’s at my side, head tipped down again into my personal bubble, murmured words a warm caress on my cheek. “You’re entitled, too.”

  I do not miss that he’s basically insulted me in the same beat as finally making a rather suave move on me, I must admit. He can’t quite throw off his hatred, even in the heat of pursuit.

  That’s fine. Just one more way I can be better than him. Maybe. If I try really hard. Which I’m going to do. Starting right now.

  I’m feeling like I want you to throw me down on this floor and take me right now.

  Nope. Too strong right out of the gate. Not believable at all.

  I’m feeling like I might swoon just from the masculine scent of your body so close to mine.

  Swoon? Masculine scent? No one talks like that anymore. He’ll know I’m quoting a book instead of actually telling him something honest.

  I’m feeling, I’m feeling, I’m feeling …

  My brain computer hits backspace on words quicker than I can think up new ones.

  I’m feeling like I could wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze until your head pops like a balloon filled with Jell-O.

  Now, that is genuine. Too bad I can’t say anything at all.

  He waves his hand in front of my face. “Sophie? Are you there? Are you dehydrated again?”

  Thank you, James, for that excellent excuse, which I will use to my fullest advantage. Never thought I’d ever even think those words. “Uh, yeah. I might be. Forgot my water bottle again this morning.”

  He looks me up and down, but it doesn’t feel sleazy at all. Then again, he hardly looks at me unless it’s to figure out which artery to inject the poison into. “Maybe you should sit down for a while. Get something to drink. I’ll sort the stand music.”

  Oh, ho-ho. No way, buddy. I’m onto you. In more ways than one.

  He just wants to screw with my head and get the head drum major spot. Letting him win would be like giving him a twofer. He already had a onefer. He’s not getting any more.

  “I think I’m actually okay. My water bottle is over there.” I gesture vaguely to the other side of the small room just to plant the idea to give me some space if he decides he’s going to be really gallant and go searching for it. I actually have no idea where my water bottle is. “I already started this, so I can finish it. Go ahead and do whatever else you were planning for the rest of the hour.”

  He chuckles, but the expression on his face is anything but happy. “You really can’t stand to be in my presence, can you?”

  One last test for me to pass, I guess. If he needs this much convincing, I’m not sure the entire drama department has enough acting skills to pull off this charade. “What are you talking about? I already said we’re friends now.”

  “Just like that?” he prompts, snapping his fingers for that extra pizzazz. “Not second-guessing yourself in that brain of yours? Not planning my slow, agonizing demise?”

  Well, yes. I’m always running a mental background app of exactly that. But if I’m going to go to law school and excel, then I’m going to have to learn how to lie. Or at least how to bury the truth beneath something that sounds even more believable.

  “Why is it so hard to imagine that I could put the needs of the band before my own? You might hate my guts, but you can’t deny you know me. I love band, James. I’ll do anything to make our senior year successful.”

  Silent laughter dances in his eyes. This is not the reaction I was hoping to get from calling him James again. “You mean, you’ll do anything to make your senior year successful.”

  He never denies hating my guts. That’s noteworthy. Or not.

  “It’s no secret or surprise every one of us wants the head drum major spot for ourselves. You, me, and the other guys are all going to be trying to get the votes. Don’t make it out to be some sort of covert operation that only I’m participating in.”

  Only I am. And so are they.

  Screw being an attorney. I should be a spy. I actually think I just said all that with a completely straight face.

  “Is that right?” James nods, his gaze sweeping over my face like he’s trying to play hide-and-seek with all the lies piling up between us in this room.

  “Yes, that’s right.” I struggle not to nod and raise my voice to the liar, liar, pants on fire octave.

  “Okay.” James crosses his arms over his chest without stepping back, nearly knocking me off-balance. “Prove it.”

  “Prove what?” That physical move was meant to reinforce this mental one. “That I love band?”

  “Prove that we’re friends now.” He swings his finger in the miniscule distance between us.

  Distance that feels stifling all of a sudden. Did the AC break down? Maybe I am dehydrated after all. I’m sweating while chills skitter down my spine.

  “How?”

  He rolls his eyes up and sticks his tongue in his cheek, making a big show of pretending to think about it when it’s obvious he already has a suggestion waiting to pounce out of his throat like a bloodthirsty tiger. When he focuses his intense blue eyes on me, a sneery sort of smile creeps along his lips until he looks like a lopsided Joker. It’s turning into a freaking circus in this tiny, tiny room.

  “Kiss me.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Friends don’t kiss, James.” It’s an automatic response that I can in no way inhibit. After the words are already stinking up the air al
l around us, my brain takes control back from my self-preserving reflexes to remind me I’m supposed to be making him fall for me. Refusing to kiss him is not going to accomplish that.

  I should be invading his personal space the way he does to me. I should be reaching on my toes to close the distance between our mouths. I should place my hand on his hard chest for balance and ground myself to the moment. I should not be seconds away from hurling at the mere thought of touching any part of his skin with my own.

  I should …

  He does all the things I should’ve done first. Only he leans down and wraps a solid hand around the back of my neck. “What if I want to be more than friends?”

  Poof. My brain explodes.

  “Tell me you really don’t want this, and I won’t do it,” he whispers against my lips.

  Brain still off-line.

  “I need the words, Sophie.”

  That horrid nickname reboots my operating system pretty fucking quickly. “Prove to me you really want this.”

  He snaps his head back to attention and does the squinting thing that’s starting to be a very concerning shared trait between us. “How?”

  “Call me”—I pause and lick my lips for effect—“Sophia. You know, my name.”

  He gives up the act because he can’t even hold in his laughter, breaking our physical connection as his entire body shakes.

  I mentally fist pump because I just hella won this first round.

  “Why do you think I call you Sophie?” He’s still trying to catch his breath, but in another dimension, it might sound like he genuinely wants to know.

  To get under my skin like a parasite I just can’t cure myself of, crouches on the tip of my tongue, but thank God the door opens, and the words escape on the cool breeze that our visitor brings.

  It’s Kim, the clarinet section leader. She glances all around the room.

  “Are you looking for your stand music?” I cheerfully pick up the pile I already sorted for her and hand it over.