First message
I leaned back in the chair, My thumb traced a mindless path over my phone screen, scrolling through a blur of memes and ads I couldn't afford. Anything to ignore the headache blooming behind my eyes.
We’d been here for two hours, and so far, every "drummer" who’d walked through that door had the rhythmic consistency of a wet paper bag.
The next candidate came in, I watched her move to the kit with a kind of clinical efficiency. She set her sticks on the snare. Snap. The hi-hat was adjusted in one smooth motion. She knew exactly where her zones were.
She caught my eye as she adjusted the stool, a faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She looked like a riot waiting to happen—all fishnets and attitude. I felt a sudden, sharp spike of interest that had nothing to do with music.
Beside me, I felt Griffin stiffen. I glanced at him. He’d finally looked up, but his face had gone totally stone-cold. He was doing that thing where he crosses his arms and narrows his eyes, his "gatekeeper" mode. I knew that look; he was already deciding she was too much trouble before she’d even hit a crash cymbal.
Whenever you're ready Griffin said. His voice was like ice. I locked eyes with her again, then glanced at Griffin. He was definitely going to be a jerk about this. I leaned my head back against the wall, a little grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. If she was half as good as she looked, Griffin was in for a very long, very loud afternoon.