Rock Me Deep (3 page)

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?

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—”

“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 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.”

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 eyeballing me. They were pissed I'd cut her 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—what I
needed
. 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 perfect. 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 Lola 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. 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 famous. 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.

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 fingertips white. Her poise was distracting, back arched into a high speed curve. The muscles on her lower arms flexed deliciously with each note.

I was fantasizing about how her limbs would flex in other situations. Perhaps the dark corner of an alley, her head tilted back and breath steaming in the night air.

Fuck, calm down,
I told myself. Shaking my head, I snapped my fingers and broke the spell Lola had put on all of us. Porter and Colt were openly gawking, and worse, they clapped when her last twang faded.

“Holy shit!” Porter shouted, jumping up with his hands by his head. “Lady, you're fucking awesome! You're in, you're seriously in—”

“Porter,” I snapped.

“—the band, I don't care what Drez has to say over there, you're—”

“Porter!” But he was ignoring me, and so was Colt. They were too busy sucking up to the kid, patting her on the back and laughing.

To her credit, Lola only had eyes for me. She hadn't said a thing to the other two.

“What did you think?” she asked me, imploring.

Kicking my chair back, I stood smoothly. “You're good. Colt, go tell Brenda to send everyone away.”

He didn't waste time. I'd made my decision, something he and Porter had both doubted I would ever do. The wiry drummer vanished out the door, leaving the three of us behind.

Lola looked one step from the edge of panic. “Wait. Wait, holy hell. Does this mean what I think it does?”

“Brenda will get the papers squared away. Get ready for two days of exhausting band practice,” Porter chuckled.

Rounding the table, I extended my hand, giving the girl a sideways smile. “You do
want
to be in the band, right?”

“Of course!” Her astonishment was... pure. Even the way she shook my hand, muscles jittering, was genuine. The heat in her skin sent a quick thrill up my spine. Before I could stop myself, I gripped her palm hard.