Tom and Corny sat at the sound board, their heads together, listening intently to how Sebastian gelled with the band. I could tell he was holding back; everything I gave him, he pulled off with the ease of a studio musician, as though he’d been playing our songs for years. Even the new stuff we had just performed live for the first time at the Music and Literature Festival not even two months ago.
“Do you listen to our music a lot?” I asked him a half an hour later, throwing a teasing grin over my shoulder as we wrapped things up and started to unplug. I was giving it my best shot, having regrouped in the bathroom, and I was determined to not let my feelings interfere with this important decision. Although we had a lot of guys who came to our shows, not many of them actually bought our albums. Our biggest fans were girls—our music was raw and edgy, but we didn’t shy away from the rock ballads. I liked to say we were a mash-up of Joan Jett, Paramore, and Evanescence, and the female fans loved us. In fact, I’m pretty sure the guys in our audiences were there just as much for the female fans as for our music. So the thought of Sebastian sitting in his room, listening to our albums until he knew every chord, every fill, every key change, struck me as a little funny.
“No.” He studied me for a moment, almost as though he was trying to figure out how to expound correctly, his eyes never wavering from mine. I finally looked away first, as usual, unable to hold his dark gaze any longer. I couldn’t tell if he was being rude, intimidating on purpose, or if he was just one of those really intense people who openly studied others around him, but it definitely felt different than it had in class. More… intimate somehow. Finally, he shrugged one shoulder. “But I’ve heard you play in class, and I’ve seen the band a time or two. Figured out your style.”
A time or two, my Great Aunt Grace O’Malley. I narrowed my eyes in disbelief as I crouched down to lay my guitar in its case. It was a sweet red Gibson ES-335 that my family had pitched in to help me buy when I graduated from high school. I had a thing for red guitars and not only was my ES-335 a beauty, but she played like a dream. “A time or two? Really? You seem to know our songs a little better than that.” Besides, I’d seen him myself at several of our shows.
“I’m a quick learner,” he replied from behind me.
“I see,” I said slowly, my disbelief tainting my tone. Because I didn’t see. Or at least, I didn’t want to see. Either he was lying about how much he listened to us, or he and I had something more in common than just the love of rock and roll and a lousy semester class together. I was one of the few musicians I knew who could hear a song once, maybe twice, and play through it almost intuitively. The other two musicians I knew who could do so played piano. One was Bumblebee, and the other was a girl named Hermione something-or-other who’d been in the Classical Composition class I’d taken last year. Sure, it wasn’t all that uncommon in the great big world of music, but in my circle, I was an anomaly. I wasn’t sure how I felt about finding another one like me; it made me feel a little less… unique.
I turned around to find Sebastian standing a few feet away, his guitar in one hand at his side, but this time, his eyes were glued to my Gibson nestled in its black velvet bed. I’d seen that look on guys’ faces before, the hungry eyes, the slack mouth, the drool, but usually the object of that kind of desire was a woman. “Chanticlaire,” I said, by way of introduction.
He blinked and looked up at me. “Nice.”
I gestured at the Strat he held at his side. “Good sound you got, there. I didn’t expect it to be so beefy.”
“Replaced the single Humbucker with a double. Made all the difference in the world.” He held it up to show me the hardware under the strings. I raised my eyebrows in appreciation, but caught myself before I held out my hand for the guitar. We still hadn’t made anything official, and I didn’t like him enough to be fondling his instrument. I didn’t think he liked me enough to let me anyway, all double entendres aside. I dropped the lid of my case closed and buckled it.
“Nice.” I used his word. He wanted cryptic, I’d give him cryptic. “Pack your stuff up.” I nodded at the window. Jon and Sly were already at the sound board with Tom and Corny, and I could see their conversation was pretty animated. They’d complimented Sebastian on their way out, so I knew they were on board with bringing him on, but I felt like I was missing out on something by not being there to hear the initial response. I reached over and rapped my knuckles on the glass pane between us, and signaled to Tom to turn on the sound so we could hear what they were saying.
Tom rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his broad chest, making his biceps look even larger than they were, but he didn’t flip the intercom mic on. I scowled at him and turned to Sebastian. “We need to hurry or they’ll decide our fate for us.”
Sebastian looked up at me, one eyebrow cocked. “We? Our fate?”
Why did I say it that way? “I meant ours, collectively, as a whole band. Not just you and me.” I made a circling motion with my hand. “Whether you’re in or not affects all of us.”
“I see.” Now it was his turn to use my words. He even used the same slightly mocking tone I had only a few moments ago. What a jerk. This wasn’t my idea. He was in my territory, not the other way around. All I had to do was say “no” and he’d be outta there.
I decided not to wait for him and went ahead into the mixing booth, closing the solid wood door behind me with a little more vehemence than necessary. “I don’t know about this guy,” I grunted, eying him through the glass panel as he took his sweet time collecting his gear.
“What do you mean, Tish? That was awesome!” Jon and Sly high-fived in agreement.
Corny was doing some kind of update to the Pro-Tools program we used for recording, his eyes locked on the computer monitor, but he responded immediately. “Sounds like he’s been playing with us for years.”
I snorted, hating that he’d voiced my impression almost exactly. I looked at Tom, hoping for some support from him. He was studying me in a way that made me uncomfortable. “What?”
“He’s a good fit, that’s what. What’s the matter? This guy too good for you?”
“You know, Tom, if you weren’t deserting us right at the crappiest time ever, we wouldn’t be in this situation. You’re not allowed to point fingers or make snide comments about anything, got it?” I crossed the small room and poked him in the chest. “This is your fault, you know that? You created this problem, not me, so don’t go making this about me being too picky. I don’t want another guitar player. I want you. Marauders is us.” I waved a hand around the room. “The five of us. It’s good—no, great—the way it is, and now you’re bailing on us and forcing us to take on some—some virtuoso to fill your shoes.” I was not going to cry. “I don’t want him. I want you,” I repeated.
The room fell stone silent, and I knew, before I even turned around, that it wasn’t simply in response to my outburst.
“I’ll see myself out,” Sebastian said from behind me, that slightly mocking tone still in his voice.
I forced myself to face him, my cheeks hot with shame.
“Thanks for your time.” His eyes held mine until I nodded, and then he crossed to the door that led out of the studio.
Sly held it open for him. “See ya, man.”
Just that simple salutation let me know that if Sebastian got away because of what I’d said, Sly would be ticked. And if Sly felt that way, I could be fairly certain the rest of the band felt the same.