Page 6 of Syncopation
Flutters of hope skimmed through Ray’s chest, mixing with the tumult of emotions already churning there. He swallowed. “That’s all we need.” He’d been working on a few new songs, butwithout Kevin sober, there’d been no hope of anything beyond lyrics.
Zavier nodded, then picked up a pair of sticks and ran through a round on the kit, testing each instrument. It was stunning. Unlike the puppy before him, Zavier had a calm, determined demeanor, and he played—even for the few minutes it took to drink in the equipment—as if he owned every single inch of the kit.
When hefinished, he flicked one stick around in his hand. “What would you like me to play?”
Everything. Anything. God, those hands. “Since you say you know them all, why don’t you pick?”
Domino raised an eyebrow. Yeah, unorthodox, but Ray wanted to know—wanted to hear from those lips—which ofhissongs Zavier Demos would choose.
A flicker of a smile, then Zavier spoke. “‘White Hot Midnight.’”
That song. Ohfuck. Wasn’t even on the album. It had been on a demo tape, but had been deemed too challenging for mainstream, whatever that meant. They played it in concert anyway and the fans loved it. There were even some people with lyrics tattooed on them. Blew Ray’s mind every time someone showed him in the autograph line.
It also contained some of the most complex drumming Kevin hadever done. They hadn’t played it much recently, for obvious reasons.
Ray surveyed Mish and Domino. “You guys okay with that?”
Dom nodded. Mish saluted. “Just give us a moment to tune,” she said.
They did, and everyone stared at Ray expectantly. “You going to sing?” Zavier cocked his head.
He hadn’t been, not much anyway, because he’d wanted tohearthe drumming, not his own voice.“Yeah. I’ll sing.” He took up the mic, tapped it to make sure it was on, and nodded.
It started with the drums—nearly every song did—and after three taps of the sticks, Zavier hit it.
Oh god, it was glorious. Even more so when Dom and Mish joined. Ray threw his voice on top, the words pouring out like they did on stage, in front of hundreds. Thousands. Except now he was only singing forone person. He closed his eyes and let it all go.
Loneliness. Jealousy. Growing up. Letting go. Getting the fuck over things. He’d written the lyrics to “White Hot Midnight” when he’d seen a photo of Zavier in a tux in at his first concert after graduating from Juilliard. The poise. The sophistication. A guy completely out of his league. Ray had been out of high school two years then, in communitycollege and struggling to create a band.
When the solos started, Ray listened, eyes hooded, staring at the floor and the mic cord running against it. Dark against light. A hint of deep orange. Wasn’t Kevin playing—the rhythm in his bones told him that. Every beat, every syncopation, was deeper, more right, exquisite. New touches added here and there. Zavier had turned Kevin’s drum line intohis own—and outstripped it.
Fuck, this was going to work. When the chorus came again, he lifted his gaze to watch Zavier and sang.
All the wilderness
Here in my mind
All I ever wanted
You never knew
The carnage left behind
Alone I lie here
In the white hot midnight
Zavier was lost in a world of his own, playing with a grace and fluidity that made drumming lookeasy. Lips parted, eyes so bright, body alive.
When Ray started in on the last repeat, their eyes met, and Zavier nodded, as if he were part of the band.
As the last notes faded and silence fell on them, Ray realized he was. There wasn’t any other drummer at all. Zavier hadn’t auditioned—he’d taken them all on and won.
Even Mish was speechless, whichneverhappened.
From behindthe drum kit, Zavier still held Ray’s stare. No words, but he knew they were a band. That lay in that smile, the triumph written into his shoulders and arms.
You bastard. The thought flitted through Ray’s mind, even as his soul melted from the fading echoes of music that he hadn’t heard the likes of since Kevin hit the bottle.You bastard. You knew that song was about you.
