“Isn’t the studio paying…”
“Quinn!” Tucker cut him off. “I swear to god. Shut it. This tour starts in five weeks, and we’re still playing with a sideman drummer. Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost to pay a short-term replacement? Do any of you care?”
The guys all shook their heads. I sat there in silence, having no say in the decision-making.
“Just pick a drummer, any drummer, and let’s get…” He glanced over at me for the first time. Then did a double take. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Rory Higgins.” I paused before adding, “Sir.”
“And I repeat. Who the fuck are you?”
“He’s our new drummer,” Quinn said.
“We already have a new drummer. He came on last week. His name is…” Tucker raised his eyes to the rafters in an attempt to bring forth his name from somewhere deep in his brain. “Busch.”
“No, Busch was a few weeks ago,” Quinn informed. “Then we had Woo. Followed by Denyer.”
It was the sigh heard around the room. “You told me the last drummer was the last one.”
“No, Tucker,youtold us that. We never agreed.”
“Are you trying to kill me? Is that it?”
“We told you from the start that we weren’t going to replace Brandon until we found the right drummer.”
Tucker threw his hands up, the cane whizzing through the air. “The three of you are never going to find the right one because you’re thinking with your hearts and not your heads. You have no time left. None!”
“Tucker,” Quinn yelled over his tirade, “Meet Rory Higgins. He’s not a session drummer. He’s the final member of the band.”
Tucker blinked, looking around. “You all agree?”
The consensual nods brightened his mood. “You’re sure?”
More nods.
“And he’s the one you want to go on tour with?”
Verbal assurances followed.
Tucker appeared momentarily speechless before wiping a fake tear from his eye. “Well, hallelujah. And Higgins? I don’t care if your drumming makes me want to dive headfirst into a steamy pile of poo. You’ve got the job.”
And with that vote of confidence, practice started at fifteen ten.
* * *
Three quartersof the condensation in the room came from me. Every song had to be played over and over as I learned the rhythms and beats. When the others took breaks, I stayed. Like Tucker said, the tour started in five weeks, and not only did I need to know the songs, I also needed to fill the shoes of a ghost. I’d never known Brandon, but I knew I’d have to walk a fine line between staying true to his beats while adding my own unique style to the songs. I’d go easy on them at first, only adding subtle changes. The remaining members of Sketch Monsters weren’t ready for more than that. Not yet, anyway.
Tucker caught me on my way out; more like poked me in the back with his cane.
“Higgins,” he huffed. “We need to talk.”
Ice replaced the blood pumping through my veins. I’d never heard that line spoken without hellfire coming my way. Dropping my head, I followed him back into the empty room.
“Was I shit?” I asked, once the door was closed behind us.
Tucker’s forehead wrinkled. “No. Quite the opposite, which makes this all the more difficult.”
Fucking Quinn. He’d promised I had the job, but clearly he wasn’t in charge of Sketch Monsters. That was Tucker Beckett, and I was about to get fired. Dammit. I’d already texted Cap and told him I was out of the band with no name. Would they accept me back? Did I even have the balls to ask?
