“No,” she says, without hesitation. I must not have been able to hide the shock on my face when she doesn’t dodge the question and gives me an answer, because she shrugs before saying, “You’re a good kisser.”
“Anything else you think I’m good at, Sunshine?” I wag my eyebrows at her and smile before hiding it behind my cup of coffee.
“Anyway,” she says, drawing out the word and leaning forward to press record on her Voice Memos app. “Tell me how you succeeded in making Andrea Smith rue the day.”
****
I sat in the parking lot, engine idling, staring at the nondescript building where the live audition would take place. I’d been sent three of Velvet Shadows’ tracks and already sent my video audition, and they had been interested enough toinvite me to audition live. I couldn’t explain it, but I already had a feeling that I was exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment.
The sun was already starting to dip behind the horizon, painting the sky in shades of violet and orange. It had been a long day already, but I couldn’t think about that right now. I was about to walk through another door that could either open to something great or slam shut in my face. I was used to rejection—every musician is—but it never seemed to get easier.
I glanced down into the seat next to me at my worn-out drumsticks, the wood slightly splintered from too many rehearsals, too many hours spent hammering out rhythms in dimly lit rooms.
Velvet Shadows.
I had heard the name thrown around a couple of times by friends and fellow musicians. They were a local band with an edgy vibe, blending alternative rock with something a little darker, a little more raw. Rumor had it that their previous drummer, Josh, decided to step out from behind his kit and replace the lead singer, and with him as their new frontman, they were projected to hit it big.
I switched off the engine and took a deep breath, my chest tight with anticipation. I grabbed my sticks, running my fingers over the worn wood, trying to center myself. To bring my focus back to where it needed to be. I was here for one reason: to do what I did best and nail this fucking audition.
Stepping out of the car, I adjusted the leather jacket I threw on over my old Nirvana t-shirt—just the right amount of grunge without trying too hard—and made my way to the door. It was cracked open, the dim light spilling out into the parking lot.
I pushed the door open slowly, taking a moment to let the energy of the room wash over me, the faint sound of instruments spilling out and into the night. A couple of heads turned my way as I stepped in, but no one said anything right away.
There were three of them: Max, the guitarist, tall with dark brown hair touching just above his shoulders and a leather jacket that looked like it had been worn to hell and back. Josh, the ex-drummer-turned-singer, was sitting on a chair near the mic stand, his eyes almost fully hidden behind a curtain of curly, dark brown hair. And Kevin, the bassist, had black wavy hair that was long on the top and faded on the sides. He had the kind of presence that told you he could throw down on stage when it mattered.
“Hey,” Josh called, breaking the silence, his voice rough but welcoming. “You the drummer?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound confident, but I could hear the nervousness creeping through in my voice. “I’m Eric.”
He stood and extended his hand, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the tension in the air dissipated. “Josh,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you. You ready to get right into it?”
“Sounds good,” I replied, my heart kicking into gear as I walked toward the kit. It wasn’t anything special—a basic five-piece with a few cymbals, but it would do. I didn’t need anything flashy; I just needed to let my ability speak for itself.
I settled in behind the drums, adjusting the throne to get comfortable. My sticks were ready in my hands, the feeling that this moment was more important than the others even stronger now that I was here. There was something in the way they were watching me. It wasn’t just about the beats, the fills, or the technical stuff—it was about something deeper. Theywere looking for a spark, and I had to show them that I could ignite it.
I nodded at Max, who gave me a signal to start.
The first song was fast—a chaotic burst of energy. It was easy enough, a simple 4/4 rock beat with a couple of fills thrown in for flavor, but what set it apart was the way the band played it. Josh’s voice came in strong and commanding, but with a fragility that was almost eerie. Max’s guitar rang out, and the pulse that kept everything together came to life. I could feel the tension, the release, and the emotion as I hit the snare, the toms, the cymbals, and riding the groove with everything I had.
We wrapped up the first song, and there was a moment of silence where no one said anything right away. I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, trying to steady my breathing, my heart racing behind my ribs.
“Not bad,” Josh said, his voice still rough but with a hint of something else. “I love your energy. Let’s see what you do with this next one.”
The second song was slower—a heavy, moody ballad with an almost haunting undertone. The drumming here had to be subtle, almost a whisper beneath the other instruments. I had to hold back a little, let the space between the notes breathe, but I could still feel the thrum of the beat in my bones. This was all about restraint, knowing when to pull back and when to let go.
As I played, I stole a glance at Josh. His eyes were closed, his head swaying slightly as he sang, his voice a smoky presence that wrapped around the music.
We finished the song, and this time, there was no silence. There was a hum of approval from the band. They didn’t need to say anything, I could tell by the way their postures hadrelaxed, by the slight nods they gave each other, that I’d passed some sort of unspoken test.
The third song was my favorite of the ones I’d been sent. It was an absolute blast to play—a fast-paced, punchy track with off-kilter rhythms and a driving intensity that demanded energy. This was where I felt at home. The beat wasn’t just a foundation; it was an instrument in itself, carving through the space like a hammer driving nails into wood. I attacked the drums with everything I had, riding the crash cymbals and floor toms, feeding off the energy from the rest of the band. Josh’s voice soared in the chorus, raw and defiant, while Max’s guitar riff tore through the air like a chain saw. It was wild, frenetic, and completely in-your-face.
When the song ended, I could feel the adrenaline coursing through me. My hands were sore, my chest heaving, but the rush was undeniable.
Max put his guitar down and leaned against the amp, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve got fire,” he said. “I like that.”
I didn’t know if it was the compliment or something else, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a place. A seat at the table.
“Alright,” Josh said, sitting back in the chair he was in when I arrived. “We’ll talk and let you know soon.”
