I nodded. As long as we were clear about the state of my independence. I tossed a few more fish in my mouth. “Who’re all these other people?”
“The rest of the line. Cymbals, bass drum, quints. I don’t think the pit got the invite, though.” He referred to the percussion instruments that didn’t march. The group that handled the xylophones, gong, and other unwieldy apparatuses hung out on the fringes of the action, both on the field and off, even though they were technically a part of the drumline. He tipped his head toward the makeshift bar on the kitchen counter. “I think a few of the especially bouncy ones over there are majorettes.”
The pitch of their giggles confirmed his guess, as did the length of their skirts. I didn’t blame them for showing up though. Drummers were hot and were known for their talented fingers. “Is there anyone here you’ve—”
An arm flung around my shoulder and a red plastic cup was shoved in my face, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Marco’s face was uncomfortably close to mine as I rescued the drink before he dumped it down my shirt. I schooled my expression as his beer breath bathed my face. My shoulders were still aching and him leaning on me wasn’t helping matters.
“What’s this?” I held up the cup and used the motion to force some more space between us. “I wouldn’t have expected you to come bearing gifts.”
He laughed, a loud, grating sound that gave me a pretty good indication how many drinks he’d already had himself. “It’s the official drumline drink. NAD juice.”
I swirled the thick, syrupy red concoction. It smelled both sweet and strong at the same time.
“Drink up, babe.” The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.
After the three shots at the door, I was feeling loose as I lifted it to my lips and chugged the whole thing in one go, maintaining eye contact with him the whole time. Finished, I smacked my lips and handed him the empty cup. “Delicious.” And, in truth, it wasn’t bad. I wouldn’t have been surprised at all to find out NAD juice was cheap Hawaiian punch mixed with something like Everclear.
“Damn…” Smith nodded his respect, and the corner of his lip twitched like it wanted to smile, but he was trying to contain it.
Marco snorted. “Looks like someone’s had a lot of practice swallowing.”
I looked him over slowly, taking in his untucked button-up shirt with the rolled-up sleeves and predictable distressed jeans paired with pristine-white classic Adidas. Flicking my eyes back up, I arched an eyebrow. “Jealous?”
Smith coughed, holding a fist up to his mouth, and I turned to pat his back. “You okay there, buddy?”
“Yeah, thanks. Something kinda burned all the sudden, ya know?” He cleared his throat a few more times, no longer trying to hide his grin.
Marco slung his arm out, but it collided with a leggy redhead before he could open his mouth to respond. She caught his wrist on her admittedly impressive chest, entwined their fingers, and scooted over until she was plastered to his side. I blinked. The girl moved fast.
“Marco,” she cooed, batting her fake lashes at him. “I was hoping to run into you tonight.”
“What?” I mouthed at Smith. This chick wanted to spend time with him?
The redhead twisted briefly in our direction. “Hi. I’m Amber. And this is Willa.” She tipped her head at the petite blonde next to her. “We both play cymbals.” Her and Marco’s joined hands rubbed back and forth along the fly of his jeans. “We do our best to keep our snare players happy.”
Marco’s eyelids drooped, and he seemed to zero in on her candy-red lacquered lips. No doubt he was picturing how that gloss would look circling the base of his dick. “If you’ll excuse us…” Without another word, he pulled her through the crowd until they disappeared through a door. Presumably to a bedroom, but I wouldn’t put it past him to hog the bathroom instead.
Willa shook her head, her sleek hair swaying gently around her shoulders. “Please, don’t judge all of us cymbal girls based on her.”
Smith laughed and introduced himself, and then pointed his thumb at me. “And this is Reese. We’re both trying out for snare.”
“Wait,” she peered at me more closely, “you’re both trying for snare?”
“Yup,” I answered. Her reaction would let me know if she fell into the friend or foe category.
“How’s that going?” Respect, not derision, colored her tone. Friend it was.
“I’m still here.”
She smiled and her whole face lit up, and I thought Marco was an idiot for going for someone like Amber over someone like Willa. “For the record, I hope you make it. I’d love to see things around here shook up a little.” She squeezed my arm and whispered conspiratorially, “Plus, you get to work with Laird Bronson all day? How fucking lucky are you!”
“I wouldn’t really know.” I rubbed my sore shoulder absently, but at the mention of his name, my eyes automatically scanned the crowd, seeking him out. “I’ve barely talked to him.” And it was true. After the run, they’d kept us pretty busy, and while I’d felt the weight of his eyes on me from time to time, we hadn’t spoken again.
It took me a minute to spot him in the kitchen next to Bubba and some other guys I hadn’t met yet, gathered around a keg while one of them tapped out a rhythm on the side of it with a pair of drumsticks. But what stole my breath was the way he was looking across the room—right at me. His green eyes captured mine boldly, and I fidgeted under the intensity of his gaze, my fingers tugging on the hem of my tank top, smoothing it over the waistband of my jeans.
And I wasn’t the only one to notice. Willa squealed, then whispered, “He’s looking this way!” She jutted out her curvy hip and twisted toward me and Smith, presenting Laird with an excellent view of her ass. Then she peeked over her shoulder again, working her hair flip like a pro. Even I was impressed.
I shifted my weight to see past her and was oddly disappointed to find him edging around the small bistro table wedged in the corner, our connection broken. But when he climbed up on a cheap, folding kitchen chair, I didn’t pass up the opportunity to scope out the way his worn jeans hung from his lean hips and hugged his thighs.
Next to him, Bubba put his fingers to his mouth and let out an ear-splitting whistle. “Y’all. Shut your traps for a minute and listen to the captain!”
The background noise fizzled out and the packed room swung their collective attention his way. Was it just me, or was he blushing slightly under the sudden scrutiny? Our eyes met again, and his gaze lingered for a long moment before roving over the rest of the gathered crowd.
“I want to thank all of you who are still here after the first day for coming out tonight and enjoying some NAD juice with us. We’re excited for the upcoming season and to see which of you will make the final cut.”
“And for some fresh pussy!” a voice called out.
He laughed. “New faces are always a good thing.” Laird held up his cup in agreement and a chorus of hoots rang out. I cringed, wondering if that’s all they saw me as—a pair of thighs to be spread, conquered, and discarded. “And so are drumline traditions. The first of which starts tonight. In the effort to mingle and make some new friends, it’s expected that all you NADs at least reach first base tonight. Enjoy some drinks, introduce yourselves, and have a good time.”
“Condoms are in a bowl by the front door!” another voice shouted. “Be safe!”
“If you don’t understand how to hit a single, find a vet to instruct you, or, better yet, go ahead and cut yourself. This is the motherfucking Rodner drumline!” He hopped off the chair as catcalls and howls rang out. I guess that was the official welcome speech.
The buzz rose as everyone shuffled about, groups dispersing and reforming as they lined up their potential partners. While I might have been the only girl auditioning for the snare line, most of the cymbal players were female.
Willa bounced on her toes and dug some lipstick out of her pocket. She smeared on a quick layer of dark pink and smacked her lips. “This was my favorite part last year!” she confided, offering me the tube.