From Drummer to Gamer (Four Foxes #5)

CHAPTER 1

MATT

If you missed a single downbeat, then an entire song is ruined—collapsed into smithereens before it even started.

So they say to never miss a beat, or else you fucked up your entire band for secondhand embarrassment on live stage.

Because, unlike a few missed chords or one wrong key, the beat was the foundation of the song. One misstep was so jarring that even the crowd caught on to it.

There was no in-between when it came to the drums.

It was make it or break it—you either played it like you spent your entire life perfecting it, or you screwed it up, simple.

It was an art I devoted every ounce of my being to finesse and master since picking up a pair of drumsticks when I was eight.

And to miss even a single beat wasn’t a part of my vocabulary.

Everything was a beat, and if you looked closely, anyone could see it—it was the rhythm that flowed with life.

For example, it took me twelve measures to walk around the block to my favorite café, two to walk up to the counter, four for the barista to ring up my usual, six for her to make it, and three-fourths for her to slide the drink to me.

Exactly twenty-four and three-quarter measures in total. Like every single day.

As long as I stuck to the order, I would never miss a beat.

It was the simple rule I lived by.

Because without order, life would be chaos.

As long as I adhered to it, my life would be perfect.

Lowering my baseball hat, I walked back to Blueline, my apartment building.

Things were calmer on this side of the country, yet one can never be too careful. Being a drummer in the most popular rock band in the world as someone who didn’t like the spotlight wasn’t easy.

I loved making music. Loved smashing my drums into oblivion. Loved creating masterpieces, but the one thing I didn’t like was the fame and popularity that came with it.

But I didn’t complain because this was a gift that most people only dreamed of, so I tried my best to become invisible. And it worked. I wasn’t the selling, pretty face of the band—that crown fit my bandmates.

Emmie, with his talents and looks, fit the persona of the hot and popular frontman. Mikey beguiled the crowd with his boyish charms, and Lan hexed the fans with his broody mysteriousness.

And I—I’d like to keep to myself, dodging the limelight as I let them be the face of the band. I thrived in the shadows, commanding discipline and grounding my craft, and I liked it to stay that way.

Yet I still had my loyal following, some intrigued by my ability to be as precise as a surgeon behind my drums and some purely driven by superficial lust for how my body was jacked like a linebacker.

But things have been different since I moved to New York. It was a blessing in disguise in a sense.

Somehow, I felt called to this city, and from the moment I settled in, a sense of peace ticked inside me. It wasn’t absolute, but it was certain. I didn’t know the reason, but I had time to figure that out.

Wanting a fresh start, the boys and I left LA, finally bidding goodbye to the city and label that held us hostage for the past six years. Now, we were more pumped than ever to create our own music and take it at our own pace.

After I stepped inside the lobby, my feet carried me across the polished marble floor and straight to the private elevator assigned only to the band and our family. I pressed the button to B3, which descended me down to our private lot.

I walked past the multiple fancy sports cars owned by my bandmates and headed to my matte black G-wagon at the far end, which was the only car I owned. It was still on the nicer end but practical and sufficient for my needs. A car was merely a means of transport for me, nothing more, nothing less.

I slammed the door shut and situated myself on the plush leather seat. Before I could start the engine and get on with my day, I drew in a huge sip of my drink. Ecstasy filled my brain as the familiar taste of caramel and sugar hit my taste buds.

If there was one aspect of my life in which I lacked discipline, it was my sweet tooth. I did make up for it with my vehement workout routine and strict diet, but I wasn’t giving up my favorite caramel mocha latte for anything. Though I strictly stuck to one per day.

I guess I inherited that from my twin. Our sweet tooth was the only thing we had in common. Where I loved the quiet and peace, my sister craved the attention and noise.

Thinking of my sister, I hit her number as I started the engine. It was probably early on the West Coast, and knowing my sister, she was probably sipping kombucha on her way to Pilates, but lately, I wondered if that was the case.

“Hey, Matty.” Her measured voice filtered through the speakers. So unlike her usual cheery tone.

“Morning, K. How are you?”

“Good,” she answered meekly. “Just getting ready for breakfast with Sandra and Gillian. What about you?”

I sighed internally. I had no clue why my sister was obsessed with entertaining those bitches, for lack of a better word to define those leeches. I would be okay if they were good people, but they only used her, and it never sat right with me that K let them.

“I’m on my way to the studio,” I replied, forcing down the need to voice my thoughts.

“Oh, Trevor’s?”

“Yeah, we’re finishing up the song today. Hopefully.”

“That’s good,” she mumbled, pausing. “Have you thought of the name yet?”

“No,” I grumbled.

“Matty.” I heard her huff out a breath. “The event is in weeks, and I have to start sending out the invites and get everything sorted.”

“I know,” I murmured. “But I’m… thinking, okay?”

“Fine, need one by the end of next week. But look, I’ve gotta go. Sandra will be here in five.”

“But K, I…”

“Bye.”

The call cut off before I could say anything. Frustration pulsed through my heart, and deep down, I knew. There was no breakfast with Sandra or Gillian, nor was anyone coming to her house.

Call it twin instinct, but I always knew when my sister lied to me. I wanted to give her and Lan the benefit of the doubt to fix their shit and move here with us, but I was losing hope on that thought by the minute.

I loved Lan like my brother, and I knew he would never do anything to break my sister’s heart, but he wasn’t picking up my calls, and my sister was acting weird.

There was more to the story than they were letting on.

My thoughts halted when I reached the studio. I parked my car on the curb and gathered my drink as I got out. The bright sun slapped down the back of my neck as I made my way across the sidewalk, grateful that spring was upon us. Winter won’t be missed.

“Hey, man.” Trevor waved a hand. “You good?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, setting my drink on the ornate table in the corner, already acquainted with the place. “Can’t wait to get started.”

“Hey, Matty.” Dillan, the lead singer of KORA, nodded in my direction, followed by his bandmates Rika, Fifi, and Lex.

“Hey, everyone,” I replied curtly. “Let’s do this.”

They flashed me eager smiles and headed to the live room. Soon, the light turned red as we started recording.

The crisp sound of the drums cut through the room as Rika started the beat, shadowed by Fifi on the rhythm guitar and Lex on the bass. The music melted into the familiar smooth crescendo that Trevor and I composed, and Dillan’s deep voice kicked off the first verse.

“They’re killing it,” Trevor mumbled with a smile as he tapped his feet along, adjusting the EQ on the console.

“Better than the last one.”

Trevor side-eyed me. “Nothing can satisfy you, can it?”

“I just want it to be perfect,” I muttered.

He rolled his eyes but returned to fiddling with the controller as the band sank into the chorus.

I kept my ears trained—listening—in my head, I saw the music, the harmonies splitting with each note, cascading with the flow, perfect when they met and dissonant when they didn’t. I could see it all.

“Great work, guys. I think that was good,” Trevor spoke through the microphone when the song ended. “What do you say?” He slanted me a glance while the band looked at me expectantly through the glass window.

“The tempo on the bridge sounded off. Let’s take it down a notch and start from the top,” I replied, my voice even-toned.

If they were disappointed, they didn’t show as they agreed and hit the notes once again. This time it was in flawless sync—perfection.

Some might call me a few choice words for chasing perfection, but I didn’t know life without it.

When I picked up my first pair of drumsticks, my life changed.

Suddenly, music became my everything.

Music became my life.

And I owed it all to him.

Music was the sole song that sang in my heart.

And my drums were the beat that thrummed it alive.

As much as I loved smashing my drums on stage, I loved creating music—behind the scenes. Over the years, I learned and studied production and worked with some of the most talented people in this industry to produce some incredible albums and songs that added to my discography. Now, I had enough experience to start my own venture and finally dive deep into my lifelong dream I’d been putting aside for years.

Trevor was a longtime friend of mine, signed with Retrospective Records, leading the production for KORA’s next studio album, INDE-X . Initially, I wasn’t game. I had a lot on my plate since the move and the label launch, but Trevor insisted, and I was glad I had taken the chance because KORA had some mad talent.

“Ah, thanks for doing this for me, man.” Trevor stretched his hands over his head, groaning as he rolled his neck. “I needed your touch on the album.”

I nodded, sipping the last of my drink.

“When are you guys putting out the next album?” he asked.

“Probably in a year or so.”

“A source told me that Saint-Clair’s going to win album of the year.”

“He’s good, deserves it.”

“Are you going to the ceremony?”

I shrugged. “No.”

“Also.” He flashed a grin my way. “CINDY finally got signed. With Red, no less. Heard she sucked Gilbert’s dick a year for the opportunity. ”

“Good for her.”

“Are you kidding me?” He shot upright. “That bitch can’t sing for the life of her and has been plagiarizing her whole life. She even slapped her poor backup dancer and got caught on camera.”

“Is that so?” I asked as I stood. I wasn’t much for industry gossip—never cared nor paid much attention to it. I kept my head down and stayed in my lane, which worked out fine for me.

“Yeah.” He huffed out a breath. “Sometimes I wonder how you’ve even survived in this business.”

“Turned out just fine,” I replied, lifting a shoulder. “I gotta go, T. I’ll see you later.”

“Give the boys my love,” he said, twisting his chair back to the console. “I’ll wrap this up and send you the final file. Thanks for helping us out.”

I nodded, bumping his fist.

The late afternoon sun was still glaring bright when I exited the studio. I craved another caramel latte but bit through it as I made my way to my car.

Tomorrow, I told myself.

Soon, Chopin’s Nocturnes in B-flat minor filled the car as the city became a distant view in the rearview mirror. My thoughts drifted away as I drove to my favorite town, Iona.

A town that would soon change my life forever.