sitting that time, he scooped up the microphone and stood tall. “The volume will be lower in here to keep our ears from exploding. Keep that in mind.”
Nodding, I adjusted on the bench, music sheets on my knees. The papers moved slightly from my trembles; I forced my feet flat to stop them.
Colt tapped his sticks, Porter strummed briefly, and Drez took a swig of water.
Then they began. It was my own private show with Four and a Half Headstones.
A show I was part of.
“You fight me,” Drezden began, his words all wet sand. “Backed into a corner with your hands, and I can't keep my feet beneath me!” He crooned in low vibrations, his voice soaking me from scalp to belly.
I almost forgot to strum my notes.
He's so good, I thought in awe. He was born to sing.
Drezden had closed his eyes, the texture of his voice gliding over my throat, into my ears, like it belonged. “Fight me, hate me, kill me!”
Colt emphasized the cries with his cymbals, my world becoming an ancient war of metal and smoke.
I'd never fought so hard to keep myself together. To just breathe.
“Fight me,” Drezden growled. “One more night until we fall. Fight me with curled nails and wicked teeth.” His eyes opened, fixing on me, their green depths a sea of hot desire. “You fight me, and I can't keep my feet beneath.”
I fumbled, the off chord sickening in my ears. With my face in flames, I ducked my head and kept going. The way he sings, I can't concentrate. If Drezden had put his hands on my shoulders, he couldn't have gotten any closer.
What was wrong with me?
The heat in my stomach warned me this was more than admiration or star-struck nerves. I was feeling a pull towards Drezden that I'd only ever felt while indulging in my private fantasies.
The one boyfriend I'd had was brief, and we'd broken up just after graduation. Harold, his name had been. Horny Harold, I'd teased him, because he'd always wanted to fuck me... but I'd always been too scared.
One time, he'd convinced me to go down on him, and that— I shouldn't be thinking like this, I thought desperately. I need to make this work, it's a huge opportunity.
Maybe the only one I'll ever get.
There was shame in me, and when merged with my baffling excitement, I was losing ground. I couldn't play like I usually did.
And everyone sensed it.
“Stop!” Drezden's shout made me startle, fingers striking the wrong strings again. The brittle screech of music turned my hairs into rusty needles. He was glaring at me, eyebrows narrowing low enough to create a sea of lines on his perfect skin. “Fucking stop, everyone. You,” he snapped at me, “What the fuck was that?”
“I—what—it just—”
“Shut up,” he growled, crushing the microphone until his knuckles lost blood. I imagined he wished it was my throat. “Are you messing with us?”
“No!”
“Then get your head in place and try again,” he said, swiping his hair back. Porter jumped when Drezden pointed at him. “Play No More Stars.”
The bassist scowled, challenging Drezden with a glare. “Sure man, calm down.”
No one said anything else, the silence punctuated by Colt tapping his sticks together uneasily.
Where before there had been anticipation, now there grew a sticky tension. These guys had been impressed with me when I'd auditioned. Their admiration was melting away.
It galled me to imagine the version I'd presented to them, a crafted piece of myself that had looked like a prodigy. Now, I'd become a disappointing accident.
I'm not an accident, I know how to play, I reminded myself.
I'll remind them, too.
The stiff pick in my fingers snapped along my guitar strings. No More Stars was a song that began with a warning. Brooding notes, building with foreboding that came faster, louder, spreading to give space for the words that would soar between.
Deep, hollow punches erupted from the drums. The three of us, we were there to herald the birth of Drezden's lyrics.
That time, when he sang, I
Nodding, I adjusted on the bench, music sheets on my knees. The papers moved slightly from my trembles; I forced my feet flat to stop them.
Colt tapped his sticks, Porter strummed briefly, and Drez took a swig of water.
Then they began. It was my own private show with Four and a Half Headstones.
A show I was part of.
“You fight me,” Drezden began, his words all wet sand. “Backed into a corner with your hands, and I can't keep my feet beneath me!” He crooned in low vibrations, his voice soaking me from scalp to belly.
I almost forgot to strum my notes.
He's so good, I thought in awe. He was born to sing.
Drezden had closed his eyes, the texture of his voice gliding over my throat, into my ears, like it belonged. “Fight me, hate me, kill me!”
Colt emphasized the cries with his cymbals, my world becoming an ancient war of metal and smoke.
I'd never fought so hard to keep myself together. To just breathe.
“Fight me,” Drezden growled. “One more night until we fall. Fight me with curled nails and wicked teeth.” His eyes opened, fixing on me, their green depths a sea of hot desire. “You fight me, and I can't keep my feet beneath.”
I fumbled, the off chord sickening in my ears. With my face in flames, I ducked my head and kept going. The way he sings, I can't concentrate. If Drezden had put his hands on my shoulders, he couldn't have gotten any closer.
What was wrong with me?
The heat in my stomach warned me this was more than admiration or star-struck nerves. I was feeling a pull towards Drezden that I'd only ever felt while indulging in my private fantasies.
The one boyfriend I'd had was brief, and we'd broken up just after graduation. Harold, his name had been. Horny Harold, I'd teased him, because he'd always wanted to fuck me... but I'd always been too scared.
One time, he'd convinced me to go down on him, and that— I shouldn't be thinking like this, I thought desperately. I need to make this work, it's a huge opportunity.
Maybe the only one I'll ever get.
There was shame in me, and when merged with my baffling excitement, I was losing ground. I couldn't play like I usually did.
And everyone sensed it.
“Stop!” Drezden's shout made me startle, fingers striking the wrong strings again. The brittle screech of music turned my hairs into rusty needles. He was glaring at me, eyebrows narrowing low enough to create a sea of lines on his perfect skin. “Fucking stop, everyone. You,” he snapped at me, “What the fuck was that?”
“I—what—it just—”
“Shut up,” he growled, crushing the microphone until his knuckles lost blood. I imagined he wished it was my throat. “Are you messing with us?”
“No!”
“Then get your head in place and try again,” he said, swiping his hair back. Porter jumped when Drezden pointed at him. “Play No More Stars.”
The bassist scowled, challenging Drezden with a glare. “Sure man, calm down.”
No one said anything else, the silence punctuated by Colt tapping his sticks together uneasily.
Where before there had been anticipation, now there grew a sticky tension. These guys had been impressed with me when I'd auditioned. Their admiration was melting away.
It galled me to imagine the version I'd presented to them, a crafted piece of myself that had looked like a prodigy. Now, I'd become a disappointing accident.
I'm not an accident, I know how to play, I reminded myself.
I'll remind them, too.
The stiff pick in my fingers snapped along my guitar strings. No More Stars was a song that began with a warning. Brooding notes, building with foreboding that came faster, louder, spreading to give space for the words that would soar between.
Deep, hollow punches erupted from the drums. The three of us, we were there to herald the birth of Drezden's lyrics.
That time, when he sang, I
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