believe she’d given up. I wasn’t leaving him unguarded until I was sure she was no longer a problem.
“It’s really not all that exciting,” he said as we strolled up to the building’s entrance. “A lot of recording the same bits over and over with just a little tweak each—”
“Colin,” I interrupted gently, “I was hanging out in recording studios practically from birth. I know how it goes.”
“Oh. Right.” His eyes made a little twitch toward me, and I knew he was remembering my dad—and the official story of how he’d died. Of Mom and I finding him ODed in his studio.
After a moment’s hesitation, Colin recovered his grin. “Well, you can’t say you didn’t ask for it then.”
Two members of his backing band were waiting in the primary live room. “Marcy,” Ryder said, prompting me to offer my hand to the chubby brunette in a faded Nine Inch Nails tee. “Our excellent bassist. And Joel, drummer extraordinaire.” A guy who looked to be in his early twenties tipped his newsboy cap to me. The angular face behind his pale scruffy beard struck a chord of recognition in me.
“Kevin’s on his way,” Joel said, and added for my benefit, “He’s our keyboardist and second guitar.”
“Joel,” I said. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
Ryder knuckled the other guy’s shoulder. “Rushfield grad, couple of years ahead of us. He helped with some of the orientation our year.”
Joel’s eyebrows leapt up. “You’re a Rushfieldian?”
“Well, I— sort of. I wasn’t there very long.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Joel said to Ryder, and then to me, “Don’t ask me how I got roped into backing this young upstart.”
“He broke my favorite guitar ten minutes before I went on during the sophomore showcase,” Ryder said, sotto voce , leaning toward me. “He’s felt so guilty about it ever since, it seemed only fair to let him make it up.”
Joel guffawed. “I broke a string ,” he retorted, elbowing Ryder with the ease of a long established friendship. Then he turned back to me. “What Colin did tell me is you’re ace with a kit.”
I glanced at Ryder, who gave me an innocent shrug. “I only spoke the truth.”
“I haven’t actually played in a while,” I admitted.
“Hey, you know, Joel’s got a nice set-up,” Ryder said. “I bet he’d let you kick around with it while we’re waiting for Kev. Just for old time’s sake.”
My gaze slid to one of the isolation rooms. I knew instinctively which one would house the drum kit. The door was half open; from what I could see, and there was no reason for him to lie, Ryder was right. It was a nice kit. But he was eyeing me so eagerly it made my skin go tight.
“Sure,” Joel said. “It’d be cool. We don’t see a lot of girl drummers.” At Marcy’s snort, he reddened. “Not meaning I’d be surprised if you are good. Just sometimes there’s a different approach—it’s interesting to hear.”
He took a few steps toward the room as if he expected me to follow, and my heart did with a flying leap. I swallowed thickly, curling my fingers into my palms.
“That’s okay, really,” I said. “I’ll only embarrass myself.”
Joel stopped. “Well, if you’re sure. The kit’ll still be here later if you change your mind.”
I was spared further debate by a stocky Indian guy bursting past the door. “I am here! Kevin has arrived!” he announced, and a portly man whose dome of a shaved head shone white in the overhead lights stepped out of the control room—the producer, I guessed.
“All right, let’s get ‘Far Out’ down so we can finally move on to the next track, people,” the bald guy said, his focus mostly pointed at Ryder. I took that as my cue to fade out of the room.
I lingered in the back of the control room for the first hour, watching the band through the window as the producer called out instructions and suggestions to them and to the sound engineer at the mixing console. He mostly
“It’s really not all that exciting,” he said as we strolled up to the building’s entrance. “A lot of recording the same bits over and over with just a little tweak each—”
“Colin,” I interrupted gently, “I was hanging out in recording studios practically from birth. I know how it goes.”
“Oh. Right.” His eyes made a little twitch toward me, and I knew he was remembering my dad—and the official story of how he’d died. Of Mom and I finding him ODed in his studio.
After a moment’s hesitation, Colin recovered his grin. “Well, you can’t say you didn’t ask for it then.”
Two members of his backing band were waiting in the primary live room. “Marcy,” Ryder said, prompting me to offer my hand to the chubby brunette in a faded Nine Inch Nails tee. “Our excellent bassist. And Joel, drummer extraordinaire.” A guy who looked to be in his early twenties tipped his newsboy cap to me. The angular face behind his pale scruffy beard struck a chord of recognition in me.
“Kevin’s on his way,” Joel said, and added for my benefit, “He’s our keyboardist and second guitar.”
“Joel,” I said. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
Ryder knuckled the other guy’s shoulder. “Rushfield grad, couple of years ahead of us. He helped with some of the orientation our year.”
Joel’s eyebrows leapt up. “You’re a Rushfieldian?”
“Well, I— sort of. I wasn’t there very long.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Joel said to Ryder, and then to me, “Don’t ask me how I got roped into backing this young upstart.”
“He broke my favorite guitar ten minutes before I went on during the sophomore showcase,” Ryder said, sotto voce , leaning toward me. “He’s felt so guilty about it ever since, it seemed only fair to let him make it up.”
Joel guffawed. “I broke a string ,” he retorted, elbowing Ryder with the ease of a long established friendship. Then he turned back to me. “What Colin did tell me is you’re ace with a kit.”
I glanced at Ryder, who gave me an innocent shrug. “I only spoke the truth.”
“I haven’t actually played in a while,” I admitted.
“Hey, you know, Joel’s got a nice set-up,” Ryder said. “I bet he’d let you kick around with it while we’re waiting for Kev. Just for old time’s sake.”
My gaze slid to one of the isolation rooms. I knew instinctively which one would house the drum kit. The door was half open; from what I could see, and there was no reason for him to lie, Ryder was right. It was a nice kit. But he was eyeing me so eagerly it made my skin go tight.
“Sure,” Joel said. “It’d be cool. We don’t see a lot of girl drummers.” At Marcy’s snort, he reddened. “Not meaning I’d be surprised if you are good. Just sometimes there’s a different approach—it’s interesting to hear.”
He took a few steps toward the room as if he expected me to follow, and my heart did with a flying leap. I swallowed thickly, curling my fingers into my palms.
“That’s okay, really,” I said. “I’ll only embarrass myself.”
Joel stopped. “Well, if you’re sure. The kit’ll still be here later if you change your mind.”
I was spared further debate by a stocky Indian guy bursting past the door. “I am here! Kevin has arrived!” he announced, and a portly man whose dome of a shaved head shone white in the overhead lights stepped out of the control room—the producer, I guessed.
“All right, let’s get ‘Far Out’ down so we can finally move on to the next track, people,” the bald guy said, his focus mostly pointed at Ryder. I took that as my cue to fade out of the room.
I lingered in the back of the control room for the first hour, watching the band through the window as the producer called out instructions and suggestions to them and to the sound engineer at the mixing console. He mostly
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