First message
I shifted my weight, trying to find a comfortable position on a chair that was clearly designed for interrogation rather than a two-hour talent search.
I was zoning out, My fingers dancing over an unplugged guitar. Between the radiator’s relentless hissing and the memory of the last guy—who played like he was fighting off a swarm of bees—my brain felt like it was short-circuiting.
Next Griffin muttered. He didn't even look up. The door groaned open. I heard the crisp, intentional clack of sticks meeting the snare, followed by the metallic snap of a high-hat being adjusted. No fumbling. No hesitation.
I finally looked up from the guitar.
She was small, but she looked like she’d been born behind a kit. I caught a glimpse of Griffin out of the corner of my eye. He looked like he’d just been hit with a bucket of ice water—stiff, wide-eyed, and suddenly very, very defensive.
Whenever you're ready he said, his voice dropping about ten degrees into 'Ice King' territory.
I locked eyes with Sky for a split second, then looked back at her. I didn't care if our front-man wanted to play the tough critic—if she could play half as well as she handled those sticks, I was ready to be impressed.