Page 18 of Cadence
I shouldn’t care. It’s not like Ineedhis support, or even his approval.
But still…I wanted it.
Chapter Seven
Maddox
GoddamnEliandhismentioning of that damn account.
I check it again on reflex—or obsession. Let’s call it what it is—careful never to leave a mark. Not a like, not a save, not a follow. But it’s there in my search history, waiting, tempting.
Because that day he showed us the unknown drummer again, it kicked off a fantasy I never thought would turn real. But the mystery of who she is isn’t solved; it’s detonated. Paige Erikson is behind one of the hottest musician accounts I’ve seen.
My thumb still hovers over the screen, ready to refresh in an instant, hoping for something new.
The worst part? It consumed my entire weekend, pulling it up at midnight like a guy with no self-control when all I had to do was wait till morning. Wait to walk inside and see her live—sticks in her hand, fire in her blood, getting lost in the rhythm.
And yet, even knowing who she is now, it still doesn’t explain that flicker of recognition I feel every time she plays with her necklace, or when she hums to herself when she thinks no one’s listening, or the light and effortless way she laughs.
I’ve heard it so many times now, especially when she’s with Eli, but it lands like a punch I wasn’t prepared for every time. It clings, wedges into my mind, gnaws at the raw edges I haven’t been able to smooth since she first walked in.
Ten days. Ten fucking days, and it’s all I can think about, all on repeat, like a track I can’t kill.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing out through my nose, but it’s useless. Everything about her scratches at something half-buried regardless of knowing the link between her and @BehindTheSnare. And the harder I try to uncover it, the deeper it burrows.
It’s the way she moves, how gravity shifts around her, especially when she plays. Body rolling with the beat, eyes closing, lips parting…
Always a performance, and it’s not even for me. But I watch anyway. And I hate that I notice, hate how she’s in my head, under my skin, and just when I think I’m done obsessing, it starts again.
The door bangs against the wall as I storm into the studio, shoulders tense, already annoyed with something I’m not ready to name.
“Are we doing this or not?” I grunt, not even acknowledging the others as I swing my case strap over my head. My fingers move on instinct, unzipping and pulling out my guitar, tuning without thought, the muscle memory action layered over frustration.
“Did we forget to mention, when Maddox wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, he’s a grumpy bastard,” Eli jokes as he jumps up from the couch and plugs in.
“That might’ve slipped your mind.” Paige laughs, moving behind the kit, quiet focus lining her forehead, like this is just another set to nail.
“You’ll get used to it.”
A pressure builds behind my teeth, a dull ache setting in as they murmur around me, getting into position. Beau gives Eli a look before kicking us off, his fingers dancing over the strings, a smooth melody spilling from his guitar. Eli follows, the bassline low and thick, easing into the spaces between.
Normally, this would settle the noise inside my head, bring a reprieve from the whispers, the worries, the constant stress just long enough to let the music take over and allow me to breathe.
But not today. Not when I can finally hear what my bandmates are doing.
Picking a track where the drums don’t hit until halfway through the intro. A soft launch, a warm welcome, a silent fucking handhold.
Behind the fucking snare shouldn’t need this.
Annoyance spikes in my blood, a continuous reaction I can’t seem to shake when it comes to her. It’s not an ego thing; it’s not that I feel threatened by her talent.
It’s something I loathe to admit and know doesn’t make sense, but it exists all the same.
I’m a guitarist. She’s a drummer. We aren’t even competing, yet the more I think about her, observe her every move, it’s turning me into a guy I don’t recognize. One I’m slowly starting to despise.
And all because I’m jealous.
I’ve poured everything into this band. Every verse, every riff, every late night spent writing. Built it with Beau, piece by piece, from nothing but bloody hands and fucked-up chords. Faced the label rejections, the empty gigs, the goddamn cracks in theroad, clawing through every inch of this industry just to be taken seriously.
