Page 12 of One Last Encore

Not just any drumming. This was an act of war. A controlled demolition. The kind of percussion that made you sit up straight because, suddenly, your heart was beating in sync with it. The drummer wasn’t just playing, he was declaring dominance. His sticks blurred as he executed rapid-fire snare hits and erratic-yet-perfectly-timed fills, the rhythm so alive it felt like it might leap off the stage and start throwing punches.

Ingrid feltit.

Drums had always spoken to her. In ballet, the moment the percussion kicked in, it meant something big was coming–a dramatic turn, a powerful leap, the climax of the performance. And right now, it felt like this drummer was dragging the entire crowd, kicking and screaming, into whatever storm he was conjuring.

Intrigued, she slipped her phone back into her purse and looked up. And froze.

The drummer, the one singlehandedly assaulting the drum kit like it owed him money, was none other thanhim. The amplifier saboteur.

Her eyes widened. Holy shit, he’s in the band.

She stared, processing the revelation. The same smug, infuriating man who had been cutting cables and invading her personal space was The Defectors’ drummer. And worse? He was good. Disgustingly, unfairly good.

He played like the drums were an extension of his own body, like they had a psychic connection. Every muscle in his arms flexed with each strike, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. Sweat beads formed on his forehead, glinting under the stage lights. His damp hair, now even more tousled, raked off his forehead as he continued to play.

And then, between beats, he twirled his drumsticks in his fingers. Why was that so…hot? She wanted to deny it, but there it was. Staring her in the face. Distractingly so. Deeply inconvenient.

She gave her head a violent shake, trying to rattle the thoughts loose.Focus. The amplifier saboteur was the drummer for The Defectors.

Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. Last year, when Eden’s amp mysteriously malfunctioned and The Defectors just happened to win, she’d written it off as bad luck. But now? Oh, now she knew. This was too much of a coincidence. He had to be responsible.

Slowly, she tapped her manicured nails against the table, already plotting his inevitable demise.

Maybe some good old-fashioned theater-kid revenge? Dump fake blood over his head Carrie-style during their next performance? Stage an elaborate trap involving fishing wire, a bucket, and a carefully timed spotlight? Frame him for a crime? Okay, that last one was a bit much, but she wasn’tnotconsidering it.

Her vengeful musings were interrupted when the band’s lead singer tripped spectacularly over a guitar cord. The guy barely caught himself, but the stumble sent him into a full-blown rage. His face twisted in fury as he spun toward the guitarist, who,in response, did the absolute bare minimum: glanced up briefly and went right back to playing. Clearly, this was not his first time dealing with lead-singer dramatics.

Meanwhile, the drummer,Saboteur Supreme, kept playing. Completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed bored by the meltdown happening three feet away from him.

The final note rang through the venue, and without hesitation, the drummer stood, storming toward the lead singer and leaning in close to whisper something.

The lead singer’s already-twisted expression somehow got worse. Then, with a furious huff, he spun on his heel and stormed offstage.

The rest of the band followed suit, the guitarist sighing like a man who had absolutely had it, while the bassist trudged after them like a disgruntled intern being forced to work overtime.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. Well, well, well. The Defectors were falling apart. And she loved to see it.

Before she could fully revel in the chaos, the announcer’s voice crackled over the speakers, cutting through the tension. "Uh… well. That was… intense," the announcer said "Let’s hear it for The Defectors?"

The audience responded with a scattered mix of cheers, murmurs, and at least one unenthusiastic woo. Someone in the back attempted a slow clap but gave up halfway through.

Ingrid smirked. Not exactly the triumphant send-off they were probably hoping for.

The judges took an excruciatingly long five-minute break to deliberate–long enough for the audience to aggressively refresh their social media feeds, argue over the best band, and, in one corner, nearly come to blows over whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

Ingrid, however, had other thoughts. Specifically, about him. The drummer. The amplifier-sabotaging menace.

How had she not noticed him at last year’s Battle of the Bands? He wasn’t exactly the forgettable type. His face should’ve stuck with her because, unfortunately, it was unfairly attractive. The kind of face that made her want to punch a pillow out of sheer frustration because it belonged to someone with such an objectively terrible personality. Truly, beauty was wasted on the undeserving.

Then again… she had been a little tipsy last year. Just a little. Okay, moderately wasted. Fine, there was a nonzero chance she had spent half the night enthusiastically complimenting a potted plant, fully convinced it was one of the judges. In her defense, it had a very wise energy.

Not her best moment, but she cut herself some slack; summer break was the only time she let herself have any fun. The rest of the year was a relentless cycle of rehearsals, aching muscles, and the slow, inevitable erosion of her sanity.

Before she could fully relive that deeply unfortunate memory, the announcer finally returned.

"And now, the final two contenders in the Battle of the Bands are..." He paused dramatically, milking the moment for all it was worth.

"Eden," he declared, letting the name hang in the air before continuing, "and The Defectors! Come onto the stage!"

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