We gathered up our stuff and headed out. A few of the other guys actually talked to me as we trekked across campus back to the dorms. I met Cade and his older brother Charlie, who was a junior on the line. While Cade seemed like a nice guy, his presence at auditions worried me. There were only a few spots available, and I’d bet anything his brother would be able to guarantee him one of them. Van, the other junior besides Topher and Charlie, rounded out our group, and I tripped over my feet when he complimented me on playing.
Holy shit, was it happening? Were they finally starting to accept me as a fellow drummer?
But then Marco drove by, honking the horn of his shiny black, jacked-up Ford pickup that was no doubt compensating for inches he was lacking elsewhere, the bass thumping so loud I could feel it in my chest, and I remembered that Van wasn’t the one I needed to worry about impressing.
He was.
I was in the last group for sight-reading, and had been killing time in the holding room for over two hours waiting for my turn. My earbuds were in and I was tapping away to a Spotify playlist using my thighs as a makeshift drum to quietly pound out the percussion line. Three NADs had already walked out with their heads down, shoulders drooping, and avoiding eye contact. They didn’t say it, but I knew. They’d been cut.
Smith had gone in the first group and come out beaming. He’d given me a high five before slipping out of here for the day. The only guy left besides me was Heath, who wouldn’t look at me, let alone talk to me. In this case though, I wasn’t taking it personally. I hadn’t seen him speak to anyone so far unless absolutely necessary.
Marco and Laird appeared in the doorway.
“Holland,” Laird said without inflection, waiting impassively for me to reach the doorway and follow him into the next room. Heath followed Marco farther down the hall.
In the room, Laird was stoic. No smiles, no jokes. All business.
I worked my way through five pieces, each time waiting anxiously as he jotted down notes without providing me any feedback. Not so much as a flicker of expression budged his carved jawline and I found myself smiling bigger at him, raising my eyebrows, cocking my head to the side, every nonverbal cue I could think of to try to trigger a reaction.
After the last piece, I grabbed my sticks and my bag and headed for the door, not waiting for him to finish writing down whatever it was he was noting about me, fed up with his lack of response. I knew I should wait to see if he wanted to discuss whatever it was that had him scowling so hard during warm-ups, but if he’d wanted to talk, he’d had more than enough opportunities. I was done.
I wrenched the door open, then flinched when his hand circled my left wrist and he kicked the door closed again.
He studied me, his eyes roving over every inch of my face as if memorizing the contours. I puffed out a breath, the loose tendrils that’d escaped my messy ponytail resettling around me.
“What?” I demanded finally.
“Why are you doing this? Trying out for drumline?”
I stared at him in disbelief. “I’m a drummer.”
“But why drumline? Why not a garage band or something else?”
“Look,” I started, annoyance threading its way into my tone. “Do you ask all the guys this too?”
He lifted a hand, and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. Time stretched as the pads of his fingers hesitated for a moment on the side of my neck. “No. Just you.”
Laird stood close enough that I could smell the coffee lingering on his breath, and I wondered if he could feel my pulse kick up where his hand still held my wrist.
His gaze drifted lower, then he paused, his eyes narrowing. Tilting his head to the left slightly, he let go of my wrist, raising his hand to trace the faint scar that was just barely peeking out from the neckline of my scoop neck shirt.
Goose bumps sprouted on my arms, and my nipples pebbled at the feel of his skin grazing mine so gently, so carefully.
He sucked in a breath, and raised his eyes to me. Neither of us moved, his one fingertip the only thing connecting us. The tenderness was unexpected, and it was a sensation I wasn’t used to. My past physical experiences with guys had shown them to be impulsive, hasty, and too distracted by the final destination to enjoy the journey getting there. The softness nearly undid me. I sensed if Laird were to ever touch me, really touch me, it’d be completely different.
I peered up at him, wondering if he felt it too, the heady awareness that seemed to permeate the air between us, making it heavy and thick with possibility. Emotion warred in his eyes. Concern, heat, frustration, indecision.
“It’s nothing,” I said finally, and twisted my shoulders until his hand fell away. “Car accident when I was a kid.”
“Reese.” His mouth opened but no more words came out. Between us, his hand curled into a fist, as if holding onto the memory of the way I felt, not quite ready to let it go.
The intensity of the moment was too much for me, and I forced a mocking smirk to my face. “Do you touch all the guys’ chests too? Or just mine?”
This time, there was no mistaking the flare of hunger in his green gaze, and he leaned closer, his hot breath fanning my cheek, his answer a whispered promise in my ear. “Trust me, if I were touching your chest, you’d know it.”
Laird
“Video game design? Really?” Eli’s glasses framed huge green eyes that squinted at me in disbelief. Or maybe they looked so big because he was twenty pounds underweight for an eight-year-old. Or maybe because the hospital bed we were sitting on seemed like an island, an oasis of blankets and pillows surrounded by an ocean of machines and monitors and equipment that no kid his age should even know existed.
“Yeah, Tuesdays and Thursdays at,” I exaggerated my wince for his benefit, “nine in the morning. Ugh.” I clutched my chest and fell back at the horror of such an early hour.
He didn’t so much as blink at my theatrics. “What else?”
“Human Centered Computing, Data Mining and Analysis, Medical Psychology, and the second Anatomy and Physiology. I think I get to dissect a pig or something this semester. Want me to bring pictures?”
His smile stretched from ear to ear. “Hell, yeah.”
I glanced quickly at the door for any sign of his parents. “Watch it, buddy.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m old enough to have cancer, but not old enough to cuss. Which is bullshit if you ask me.”
I silently agreed.
“But, seriously, why video game design? That one doesn’t seem to fit with everything else.”
“Little man, are you doubting me? I can totally make a kickass video game.”
“Look, Laird, I don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re kind of a nerd. Like, too nerdy for video games, even.”
“I am not!” I was genuinely offended. “I’m totally cool. Need I remind you I’m the captain of the Rodner University Drumline?” I said the last three words slowly, because if there was one thing Eli lived for, it was Rodner football and anything associated with it. “If that doesn’t give me legit cool points, then you’re out of your mind.”
“More like out of my white cells,” he joked, collapsing onto his pillow in laughter.
This kid. He was the best part of my week—even better than the performance high of a halftime show during a home game—and I always spent most of my time in his room during my visits. Other guys probably wouldn’t consider hanging out on the pediatric cancer ward their idea of a fun afternoon, but it’d been part of my life for so long, I hadn’t been able to stop coming when it was no longer necessary.
“Alright, so tell me the good stuff. You got a chick yet?”
“Ha!” I scoffed. “Why tie myself down like that?” But it didn’t stop my mind from wandering back to the drumline party a few nights ago. How I’d helped Reese back to her dorm room. How I’d found a washcloth and cleaned off her face the best I could. How I’d somehow managed to get that crazy strappy bra off her from behind, without once giving into temptation and sneaking a peek—or a handful—of her tits, because the first time I saw them—and it would happen—I wanted it to be because she wanted it too.