Page 4 of Sycopation
So. Submit his CV. Type up a statement of intent. And click.
The tumble in his soul was the sheer opposite of regret—giddy anticipation.
They’d call, he knew. They had no choice. Wouldn’t find a better drummer, mostly because there weren’t any. He leaned back and tabbed to the apology. Above it was a photo as haunting as that little melody all those years ago. Ray, his lovely brown hair all cut and jagged. He didn’t wear eyeliner like Domino did—didn’t need it. Not with those wide golden eyes of his, like the whiskey he’d thrown at the drummer. His full lips were pressed into a line, and the tension was so bitter and sweet in the set of his shoulders.
No longer the gangly sophomore. Had Ray been older back then—well. Maybe Zavier would have joined the band, at least for the summer. Same amount of years lay between them now, but back then, Ray had been barely sixteen to Zavier’s well past eighteen. Too young to fool around with, even for a summer fling.
Once more Zavier’s fingers itched, but for very different reasons. Except now he knew better than to lose control and fuck where he worked.
He had no doubt he’d be working with Ray very soon.
CHAPTER
THREE
If there werea hell designed to punish Ray for kicking Kevin out of the band, auditioning for his replacement must have been it. He hoped his expression was schooled as thechildat the kit whaled on the skins like he’d only been playing a few years. Maybe he had—guy couldn’t have been that long out of high school.
Then again, not too many years back, Ray’d been the same. Granted, he’d never dreamed of auditioning to go on tour with a band. He hadn’t been ready yet. Hell, it took a few years and some singing lessons to settle his voice into a range he could belt out without scraping his vocal cords from his throat.
The kid meant well. In a few years, he might be formidable. Ray gave a little nod to Domino and Mish, and they both struck some final chords.
“How’d I do?” The kid was breathless and glowing. Eager as a puppy, but he also looked like he’d pass out in his food dish if given a chance, which—well, puppy.
“Not bad at all.” Ray kept his tone light. “We’ll let you know within a week, as we still have some other auditions.”
Once the kid was gone, Ray closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. No one they’d heard play was up to Kevin’s originalquality. A few were serviceable drummers who could build up to the tricky rhythms, but they needed someonenow, not in six months to a year. The kid was the last audition they had booked. “We’re screwed.”
Domino took a breath before speaking. “Actually, there’s one more audition today.” For someone dressed in all black, wearing a studded leather collar and two-inch platform boots that could crush skulls, Dom lookedremarkablysheepish.
“Yeah?” Ray stomped over to the schedule and picked it up. “There’s nothing written down.” He threw the clipboard on the table.
Mish blew out a breath and backed away, hands in the air. “This is between you boys.”
“I should have written it down. Carl approved him this morning, but...” Dom fiddled with the strings of his guitar. “I didn’t know how you’d react.”
“How I’d—” Except for Kevin, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d throw out the door. “Who the hell is auditioning?”
“Me.”
Smooth voice, like those images of melted chocolate in commercials. Vaguely familiar, too. Tingles ran down both of Ray’s legs, and he rotated toward the door.
There, leaning against the frame, was Zavier Demos. Older, improbably hotter, and still as perfect as ever.
“No.”
Fucker flashed a gorgeous smile. “Nice to see you, too, Ray.”
No wonder Dom hadn’t put him on the list. Ray would have crossed his name right back off due the lingering anger from high school. Zavier had been everything he’d wanted to be. Born with rock-star looks and a rock-star name, and a musical prodigy to boot. Fucking asshole had laughed all those years ago when Ray had asked him to join his first band.
“I thought you went to learn to playrealmusic at Juilliard.” He let bitterness slip into his voice.
“I did go to Juilliard.” Zavier pushed off the doorframe and strode into the room, right up to Ray. Close enough that his black hair glinted in the overhead lighting. “All music is real. Yours especially.”
He’d forgotten how blue Zavier’s eyes were. They’d hardly crossed paths back in the day—seniors with scholarships didn’t hang out with dorky sophomores with garage bands. Zavier’s words threw him, though. “I—Thank you.”
Zavier smiled, as if Ray had given the correct answer to some unknown question, and every bit of Ray lit up, as if he were still a pining sixteen-year-old. Fuck that to hell. He pushed the giddiness away.
“Shall I play for you? Or do you want to play for me?” Zavier’s words stroked over Ray like a lover’s fingers.
