Chapter Two
Maddox
Paige adjusts the stool without hesitation, settling in like she’s done it a thousand times. I watch more closely than I did with the others, tracking how she rolls her shoulders, shakes out her wrists, twirls the sticks once between her fingers before she stills.
Her gaze flicks up to us. “Ready?”
Beau looks at me, and I don’t hesitate. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
He taps his phone, clicking play. The slow, electric intro of Beau’s guitar spills through the speakers, the hair on my arms lifting. Paige closes her eyes, hands hovering, sticks raised, breath held.
Then she hits the kit.
The first thud of the bass drum rolls through the floor and up my spine, taking hold of me instantly. My fingers curl against the table as she flows into the rhythm like she’s been playing with us for years.
There’re no nerves, just precision, every move calculated and fluid in a way that takes a lifetime of practice. She’s better than anyone we’ve seen today. By a mile.
One song turns into two, and I don’t move, barely breathe, telling myself I’m analyzing her technique, assessing her skill as I track her hands, watching her posture, listening to her timing.
It’s a lie.
I’m waiting for her to screw up just like everyone else. But she doesn’t.
And I don’t know why that puts me on edge.
The rational part of me knows this should be a relief. Four weeks to get someone to the level we need to be tour-ready seemed impossible before, but she’s the first person who’s come close to achieving it.
Someone who can keep up, match our energy, amplify our music. Exactly what we need.
Only it doesn’t feel like that.
It feels like a warning.
My gut twists, something ugly curling up from the depths, a wrongness I can’t explain pressing in from all sides. My pulse kicks up, everything on edge as I stay alert, searching for a flaw. A missed cue. A sloppy transition. Something.
But there’s nothing.
She plays like we’re live in the room with her, not just some track through a damn speaker. It’s too smooth, too confident, and the longer I wait, the more the illusion refuses to crack, and I can’t take it anymore.
Shoving back from the table, I grab my guitar and plug in.
Beau lifts his eyebrows as Eli straightens, mouthing what the fuck?
but I ignore them, snatching Beau’s cell from beside him and cutting the music.
Paige trails off too, curiosity flashing in her eyes as she watches me stand to the side, fingers sliding down the fretboard.
I strum a muted intro; no count-in, no instruction, just sound. It’s not the track playing over the speakers either, but something else entirely. She doesn’t miss a beat, shifting smoothly, adjusting and adapting to the new rhythm like she was waiting for it.
A muscle in my neck tightens, and I switch songs mid-fill, flipping the tempo into something faster. Her lips part in a quiet gasp, but she finds the pocket and locks back in.
I smirk, not because this is fun, but because I need her to fail. Need her to screw up. Just once so I know I’m not losing it.
Another shift, mid-bar this time, with a different groove, and she stumbles—barely—but catches it just like before. Her gaze snaps to mine, watching closely now, eyes narrowed like she’s figured me out.
Good. Keep watching.
I fake a switch. She tracks it.
I loop back to the original track–the one from the start–she’s right there.
Her lips twitch in a half smile, half dare, twirling a stick and sliding right back in.
“Holy shit,” Eli chokes out.
Beau lets out a low whistle, the final beat hits, and then it’s over.
“Hell. Fucking. Yes.” Beau grins, dropping his pen onto the table and tipping his head back in delight.
Paige rests her hands on her thighs, her breaths coming in small bursts. She looks unfazed, happy even, like that was nothing. Like she didn’t just obliterate every audition we’ve had today.
Eli laughs, pushing to his feet. “Finally. Someone who can actually play.”
My bandmates look at me with expectant eyes, waiting for me to do…something. I slide the guitar strap over my head and set it back in the stand. My pulse is racing, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the way she played.
I stare at the floor, jaw and fists clenched, my back to everyone as I try to calm down. My skin feels too tight. My thoughts? Tangled cables tossed in a too-small box.
Something doesn’t line up.
“Mad?”
I hear Beau’s chair scrape back against the floor as he stands. I turn, meeting his stare across the room. He’s leaning forward, hands planted flat on the table.
“What’d you think?”
“She’s decent,” I say dryly.
The air shifts. Static and shock waves pulse around us as Beau’s grin falters and Eli looks at me like I just kicked his puppy.
Beau straightens, tattoo-covered arms crossing his chest, stiff tension lining his body. “Are you serious?”
“Decent?” Eli echoes, disbelief lacing his tone. “Maddox, were we in the same room?”
I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “There was another guy I liked better.”
“Bullshit. Name one.”
I don’t. Because I can’t.
Paige tilts her head, studying me now instead of the other way around. There’s no irritation, no fight in her expression, just the quiet knowledge that she knows I’m talking out of my ass.
Somehow, that pisses me off more.
“She’s the one, dude,” Eli whispers, imploring me with his eyes.
I don’t care. I don’t care if she fits, or if she plays like she was always a part of the band. I just don’t…
“No.”
“What?” Eli coughs. He whips his head to Beau, throwing his hands up like can you believe this?
Paige stands and reaches for her bag. “Thanks for your time. If it’s not going to work, no hard feelings.”
“Wait,” Beau cuts in, stepping toward the riser, his voice a touch too rushed. Paige exhales, hand on her hip, sticks still in her grip, body already angled like she’s ready to leave.
Beau’s gaze flicks between her and me, his hands up, palms out like he’s trying to keep her from moving. “Just…give us time to talk, and we’ll let you know, okay?”
“Sure,” she says, shouldering her bag. Without smiling or further comment, and with that same calm she walked in with, she turns, sliding her sticks gently into her bag.
“We’ll call you,” Eli adds just as she reaches the door. She glances back at him, lips tight and nods, closing it behind her.
The second she’s out of range, Beau spins on me, frustration burning in his eyes.
“Are you for real?” he snaps.
Eli stares at me, wide-eyed. “She’s the best we’ve seen, hands down. Hell, she might be better than Austin.”
I say nothing, agitation prickling my skin again as I roll my neck once, needing to relieve the pressure building, but it doesn’t help.
Beau steps closer, his voice taking on an exasperated inflection. “You’ve bitched about every single person we’ve seen today. You wanted someone great.” He thrusts his arm toward the door. “She was that.”
“She wasn’t just great,” Eli says and slaps my arm. “She fucking crushed it, Maddox. Like, owned it.”
“She’s good,” I concede. “I never said she wasn’t.”
“So what, you’d risk having to cancel this tour just because she’s not who you expected?”
“She’s not what any of us expected,” I hiss.
“Dude, what’s wrong with you?” Eli asks. “This isn’t just you being harsh. You’re sorta being cruel. She did everything right out there.”
Beau lets out a sharp breath, grinding his teeth. “Are you sure your ego’s not just bruised because she could keep up with the great Maddox Knox?”
My fists clench tighter, nostrils flaring, my thoughts pure noise against the war drum of my pulse in my ears. “My ego’s not the problem.”
“Then what is it? ’Cause this sure as hell isn’t about her playing.” He scoffs. “You want to tank our shot because you’re spiraling over a gut feeling?”
I open my mouth, not even sure what I’m trying to say, but the lie is already there.
“I just think there’s someone better out there.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Eli mutters, pushing back the dirty-blond strands of hair curling across his forehead.
Beau stares at me like he doesn’t recognize who he’s looking at before throwing his hands up. “Unbelievable.”
The silence is instant, the hum of the amps suddenly too loud, the two sets of glaring eyes sending chills rippling through the room. I can’t stand any more of this.
I shoulder past them, boots hitting hard with every step as I head for the door.
“Where are you going?” Beau calls my name, but I don’t stop. I grab my jacket slung over an amp, fingers fumbling with the sleeve, then shove out into the hallway, ready for this shitshow of a day to be over.
The second I step into the foyer, I freeze, watching Paige push through the glass doors to the street outside, phone held to her ear.
She pauses, one finger looped through her necklace chain, sliding the charm back and forth while leaning against the wall.
It’s a casual motion, absent, automatic, but it hits me like a punch.
A memory, or the ghost of one, stirring behind my eyes, hidden behind a thick and heavy fog.
I’ve seen her do that before.
Not here, not recently, but…somewhere.
“Didn’t go well?” Thea’s voice cuts through the static, as she adjusts her glasses up her nose.
I grunt, my pulse a hammering, angry beat in my ears.
It went too well.
She was perfect.
The problem isn’t the audition.
The problem is me.
And I don’t have a fucking clue why.