Page 5 of Cadence
He taps his phone, clicking play. The slow, electric intro of Beau’s guitar spills through the speakers, the hair on my arms lifting. Paige closes her eyes, hands hovering, sticks raised, breath held.
Then she hits the kit.
The first thud of the bass drum rolls through the floor and up my spine, taking hold of me instantly. My fingers curl against thetable as she flows into the rhythm like she’s been playing with us for years.
There’re no nerves, just precision, every move calculated and fluid in a way that takes a lifetime of practice. She’s better than anyone we’ve seen today. By a mile.
One song turns into two, and I don’t move, barely breathe, telling myself I’m analyzing her technique, assessing her skill as I track her hands, watching her posture, listening to her timing.
It’s a lie.
I’m waiting for her to screw up just like everyone else. But she doesn’t.
And I don’t know why that puts me on edge.
The rational part of me knows this should be a relief. Four weeks to get someone to the level we need to be tour-ready seemed impossible before, but she’s the first person who’s come close to achieving it.
Someone who can keep up, match our energy, amplify our music. Exactly what we need.
Only it doesn’t feel like that.
It feels like a warning.
My gut twists, something ugly curling up from the depths, a wrongness I can’t explain pressing in from all sides. My pulse kicks up, everything on edge as I stay alert, searching for a flaw. A missed cue. A sloppy transition.Something.
But there’s nothing.
She plays like we’re live in the room with her, not just some track through a damn speaker. It’s too smooth, too confident, and the longer I wait, the more the illusion refuses to crack, and I can’t take it anymore.
Shoving back from the table, I grab my guitar and plug in. Beau lifts his eyebrows as Eli straightens, mouthingwhat the fuck?but I ignore them, snatching Beau’s cell from beside him and cutting the music. Paige trails off too, curiosity flashing inher eyes as she watches me stand to the side, fingers sliding down the fretboard.
I strum a muted intro; no count-in, no instruction, just sound. It’s not the track playing over the speakers either, but something else entirely. She doesn’t miss a beat, shifting smoothly, adjusting and adapting to the new rhythm like she was waiting for it.
A muscle in my neck tightens, and I switch songs mid-fill, flipping the tempo into something faster. Her lips part in a quiet gasp, but she finds the pocket and locks back in.
I smirk, not because this is fun, but because I need her to fail.Needher to screw up. Just once so I know I’m not losing it.
Another shift, mid-bar this time, with a different groove, and she stumbles—barely—but catches it just like before. Her gaze snaps to mine, watching closely now, eyes narrowed like she’s figured me out.
Good. Keep watching.
I fake a switch. She tracks it.
I loop back to the original track–the one from the start–she’s right there.
Her lips twitch in a half smile, half dare, twirling a stick and sliding right back in.
“Holy shit,” Eli chokes out.
Beau lets out a low whistle, the final beat hits, and then it’s over.
“Hell. Fucking. Yes.” Beau grins, dropping his pen onto the table and tipping his head back in delight.
Paige rests her hands on her thighs, her breaths coming in small bursts. She looks unfazed, happy even, like that was nothing. Like she didn’t just obliterate every audition we’ve had today.
Eli laughs, pushing to his feet. “Finally. Someone who can actually play.”
My bandmates look at me with expectant eyes, waiting for me to do…something. I slide the guitar strap over my head and set it back in the stand. My pulse is racing, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the way she played.
