Page 14 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I follow the sound, my heart beating in time with the drums. Down the hallway, past closed doors and dark portraits. The music grows stronger with each step, pulling me forward like a lifeline.
The warring thoughts in my head melt away into nothing as every step becomes more hurried. I pant for breath and wipe the fallen pieces of hair away from my clammy face.
The sound leads me to a heavy wooden door, and through the gap at the bottom, I see light and movement.
Just a crack. It won’t hurt. Just open the door a crack to hear better.
My hand is on the doorknob before I can talk myself out of it.
The rehearsal room is more impressive than I had imagined. It’s large and soundproofed, with professional equipment set up like a real studio. Ryder stands center stage with his electric guitar, completely lost in the music. To his left, a guy with shoulder-length brown hair attacks a bass guitar with focused intensity. Behind them, a drummer with a buzz cut pounds out a rhythm that reverberates through my bones.
They’re running through a song I don’t recognize, and it’s incredible.
Ryder’s fingers move across the fretboard with fluid precision. But even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders and the exhaustion in the way he holds himself.
The bassist hits a wrong note and immediately stops playing. “Dude, can we take five? Dad was on my case this morning, and my head’s not in the game.”
“Chase, man, I’m with you,” the drummer says, setting down his drumsticks. “My arms are about to fall off.”
“We can’t afford to take breaks,” Ryder says with stress-fueled tightness in his voice. “The showcase is in two weeks. If we’re not perfect, we may as well quit now.”
“Dude, we know,” Chase, the bassist, says with a hardened sigh. “Like I said, Dad made it very clear what’s at stake.”
“Then you know we can’t slack off.” Ryder runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “Brooks, the last run-through of ‘Fractured’ was sloppy.”
“That was one missed beat,” Brooks, the drummer, protests.
“One missed beat in front of executives could cost us everything.” Ryder says harshly. “You guys don’t get it. Before I joined this band, you were…”
“We were nothing,” Chase finishes flatly. “Miranda found you, replaced our basically non-existent frontman, and suddenly we’re on the Late Show. We’re not idiots, Ryder.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“We know what you meant.” Brooks picks up his sticks again. “And you’re right. So let’s run it again.”
“Yeah, we need to get as much practice in as we can,” Ryder says bitterly. “Miranda’s making me do that stupid tutoring thing at two.”
“Oh, right,” Chase says with a smirk. “Miranda’s new house guest. How’s that going?”
“It’s not,” Ryder grunts. “It’s a complete waste of time. I should be practicing, not babysitting Miranda’s little charity case.”
“Dude, harsh,” Brooks says, though he’s grinning.
“I’m serious. She shows up here, and suddenly Miranda’s got divided attention. We’ve got two weeks until the most important performance of our lives, and now I’m supposed to spend my afternoons with some girl who—“ He stops himself, shaking his head. “It’s BS.”
“Your English grade is pretty bad though,” Chase points out. “My dad mentioned it.”
“Tutoring shouldn’t be a priority right now. The band should be our sole focus.” Ryder adjusts his guitar strap, frustrationcreasing his brow. “I need Miranda to focus on the band. On me. Not playing foster mom to her dead sister’s daughter.”
The palpable bitterness in his voice sends a vicious sting to my chest.
“Whatever, man,” Brooks says. “Let’s just run through this before you have to go play student.”
Perfect. I’m going to be forced into a room with a brooding musician who completely resents my existence.
As if my life wasn’t messed up enough.
The trio get back into their positions, and I accidentally lean on the door and the hinges creak.
