16
Slater
“Seriously, this is painful. The only thing missing is my gong button, or whatever that old program had to make the shitshow stop,” I grumble, shooting disapproving daggers Tommy’s way. I tap my pen to a new beat I’m creating against the wooden tabletop, because what I’m hearing onstage right now is beyond trash.
“Relax,” my brother Fife chuckles beside me. “They’re not that bad. Only four more acts to go. Then we can bounce and find you some pussy for tonight. I know you’re going through withdrawal. We know how hard it was for you waking up to your palm in the morning.”
“Right, right. Anyway, of course this sad excuse for music doesn’t bother you ’cause you’re a tone deaf motherfucker who wouldn’t know a good sound if it smacked you in the face, so you don’t get a say,” I deadpan, as the last band, Solitude, thanks us for the opportunity to audition for us before leaving the stage. Good riddance.
“Fuck off, Slate. You know they weren’t that bad,” Rain pipes in. “Besides, did you see the tits on that drummer? I could definitely get used to watching those beauties bounce with each crescendo and comping beat she adds,” he smirks, raising his brows.
“And here I thought I was the pig…” I shake my head. “They’re a no, Tommy,” I say, despite Rain’s compelling plea.
“Okay, they’re out,” Tommy says, crossing Solitude’s name off the big white board we’ve got the bands listed on. Out of the fourteen bands we’ve heard already, there are only four we’ve agreed might be possibilities.
“Tommy, who’s next?” Scott, our bassist, asks, placing a beer in front of me as if he knows I’ll need one if I gotta sit through this bullshit much longer. The torture show began at nine this morning, and if we don’t find another kickass band to fill the bill, we could be sitting here at The Escape Room for another few hours, watching a parade of bands until we all agree. And I’d rather not.
“Next up is Stone Owl, and then Happenstance,” Tommy announces. “That’s the band I was telling you guys about. The all-girl band, the one I think would be perfect for the tour,” he says. He signals to Murdock, our head roadie, to bring in Stone Owl. His enthusiasm for Happenstance has me rolling my eyes. Guy’s got another thing coming if he thinks we’re picking some band just cause he’s banging one of the chicks’ sisters.
“All right, let’s get this shit done. I got a good feeling about these two bands,” Zack, our lead guitarist, says, pulling up a chair close to the stage.
“Hi, I’m Kyle, and we’re Stone Owl.” I look up and see some preppy-looking kid smiling a toothy college-boy grin that kind that exudes way too much confidence, as if the kid thinks they’ve got this in the bag.
“Here we fucking go,” I lean into Fife, “a hundred bucks says they suck ass.”
“Ten to one, they’re solid,” he nods. A cocky smile etches his face, and his brown eyes beam as if he knows something I don’t, as if he’s listened to more of their demo than the rest of us.
Betting on bands like this is something we’ve done for years. It’s our version of the horse races, only we aren’t privy to a bunch of stats and shit. The only thing we’ve got to go on is the two or three minutes of their demo we’ve heard. It literally takes me all of twenty, maybe thirty, seconds of play for me to tell if I’m going to like a band or not. And I remember these guys; I wasn’t impressed then, and I’m sure as shit not impressed at all now, seeing this walking Gap ad of a band standing in front of me. I’m a shoo-in to win, so I accept the ten-to-one odds. “You’re on, asshole.”
I clap Fife’s back as the blonde drummer taps out his count, giving way to a horrible guitar riff that encompasses a whole lot of speed, but absolutely no control. The racket drifting in the air sounds like strings breaking (and not in a good way), rather than the echoes of precision and harmonized picking we all expect to hear at this level.
After less than a minute, even Fife can’t stand it anymore. He shakes his head and waves both arms to shut Stone Owl down.
“And another one bites the dust. Even I have to admit that was brutal,” Zack says, wiggling his finger in his ear, trying to dig out the last of the shrieking feedback from the amp as Tommy deals with the prissy boy band who’s bitching about not getting a fair chance.
“And that’s how it’s done,” I gloat. I look to Fife and give him the universal money gesture by rubbing my thumb against my index and middle fingers.
“Such an asshole,” he shakes his head. “Double or nothing on this chick band Tommy thinks we’ll love?” The dry-erase marker squeaks as Tommy draws a line through “Stone Owl” on the board.
“You’re on. You always were a glutton for punishment,” I say, reaching for my beer and taking a long-ass pull, “easiest money I’m ever going to make.” I grin as I hear Tommy calling in the ladies of Happenstance to set up.
And that’s when it happens. My eyes drift up to the stage, and my gaze lands on a vision so stunning my jaw drops. Gone are my smart-assed comments, my need to place bets and rib Tommy for his blatant attempts at nepotism. Instead, I’m stunned into silence as I watch a woman strap a red-and-white, limited-edition Jimi Hendrix Monterey Fender Stratocaster with some girlie designs along the front, over her shoulder. A grin crosses my face when she gives an unsure, yet sexy, nod to a pretty girl standing at the mic. My eyes drift down the body behind that guitar with a slow, leisurely regard as pure, unadulterated appreciation takes over.
I can hear Fife spewing shit about our bet, but it falls on deaf ears, and I seem to have developed tunnel vision. She’s short, maybe 5’3” to my 6’3”, but she’s got legs for days from what I can see as my eyes trail up and down, taking in her green Doc Martens boots, and skinny black jeans, taking in shapely legs I know would feel tight and strong wrapped around me. Shifting my gaze higher, I take in her black Beatles T-shirt, noticing how she’s hiding what the other members seem to be flaunting in their tight-as-fuck tanks, which leave almost nothing to the imagination. Yet, I’m pretty sure she’s stacked with what I’d bet are a set of pretty amazing round and perky tits, judging from the way John’s and Ringo’s heads are bulging in all the right places. My ears perk up as she begins strumming flawlessly, the sound like rich, liquid silver.
Her black hair cascades down over her face as her shoulders twitch with each stroke of her hand along the chords, almost hiding her gleaming ultramarine eyes. A desperation unlike anything I’ve ever felt before starts to consume me. I need her to move her hair so I can see her face, to look my way, to give me a sign she’s seeing me, too. It’s a foreign feeling, one that’s throwing me completely off kilter. I notice my bandmates nodding, and can hear the guys complimenting her sound as she plays a complicated rhythm, one they joke Zack might even have trouble pulling off. But I don’t give any fucks, I only have eyes for her. I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a woman before. This girl is rendering me pathetic with her stage presence. I’m about to say something and make an utter dick of myself, but thankfully the bang of the drums and electric guitar quickly drown out our voices, as this understated beauty takes the lead once again in producing a sound so fucking fantastic, it blows my mind. The beats all come together, meshing; one instrument bleeding into the other, and then the sweet sound of the vocals start, perfecting the entire package that sits in front of us.
“They’re fucking aces, Slate.” Rain bumps my shoulder.
“Fuck me, dude, they’re killer,” Scott adds, as if I didn’t already know.
“What’s wrong, buttercup? Cat got your tongue?” Tommy leans close to my ear, and I say nothing. It isn’t just Happenstance’s sound that has me riveted and rooted in place, it’s her. The girl with the dark hair, blue eyes, and flawless skin, who takes my breath away like a sucker punch to the gut.
I need to know who she is.
I need Happenstance on my tour.