Four #2
In the open doorway is the man from the other night.
He walks slowly towards us, one hand in his pocket and the other swiping over his dark, bearded jaw. His suit is simple: dark and tailored to a body that looks like it was carved by the fucking Greeks. If I had thought that the honey-blonde man was tall, this man is a giant.
The air in the room changes, as if he’s bending it to his will. My heart beats painfully in my chest. He makes it to the chair and lowers himself into the seat. No one moves—no one breathes. His gaze roams over us all, as if he’s assessing us before firmly landing on me.
“I apologize for my lateness. Please continue,” he says, gesturing with his hands. His eyes never leaving mine, as though he’s speaking to me alone.
The baritone of his voice seems to shake the room. No. That’s just me shaking. My legs are quivering, and my hands tremble. How the fuck am I going to play like this?
I fight to stand tall and not shrink under his gaze.
He must notice the change in my demeanor because a small smirk crosses over his beautiful face.
He leans back into the leather and rests his ankle on his knee, a picture of pure relaxation.
He controls this entire room with such ease that it makes me wonder what he must have done to command so much authority.
Ryland’s words from last night drift over me but I don’t have time to ponder before the sound of drumsticks beating each other breaks me from my thoughts.
Fuck.
I turn the volume knob up to ten, and my hands begin their practiced dance along the neck of my guitar. I don’t think. I just play. Of course, we had to start with the most technical song. It’s my opening solo, I can’t fuck this up, but I also can’t shake the heaviness of his gaze.
I can’t help but look up and see he’s moved positions. Both of his large forearms now rest on his knees, his whole upper body pulled forward. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and I catch a glimpse of his chiseled chest.
Twang. I bum a note.
Fuck.
I glance over to Harper, who gives a pleading look as she continues to sing through the song.
Luckily, I don’t think anyone else noticed.
But of course, he did. I tear my eyes away from him, focusing on my playing, the sharp pain from the strings digging into my fingers grounding me in a familiar way.
I can do this.
I let my eyes fall closed. I’m vaguely aware of my fingers still moving through muscle memory.
I mentally create a bubble around myself, shielding myself from him.
After a few breaths, my hands steady. The icy panic is replaced with a surge of white-hot adrenaline as I open my eyes.
The soft vibration of the strings against the fretboard ground me as I lock eyes with the two other men, deliberately not meeting his.
By the last chorus, my body is buzzing with the volume of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I somehow make it through the rest of the set without looking at him, but I can feel his eyes on me the entire time.
I’m out of breath by the time the final notes ring out.
I glance over at Ryland, his hair clumped with sweat, and he wears the biggest smile on his face.
Luca wears a similar one as he brings his fist over his heart before pointing it towards the judges.
This. This is why I just put myself through fucking hell.
Harper thanks the men, and we make our way off stage and back to the dressing room. As soon as the door closes, Harper and Luca grab each other’s shoulders and start jumping and screaming with excitement.
“We did it! We were so fucking good!” Harper beams, her eyes wide with either excitement or pure adrenaline.
Even Ryland agrees and admits we could have it in the bag, which is huge coming from the band’s biggest pessimist—aside from myself, of course.
Harper settles into the couch in the corner of the room and pulls out her phone and taps out a text, presumably to Nathan.
“See? Nothing to be nervous about. You did great,” Luca says, pulling me into a bear hug so hard I think he might crack a rib.
“We were pretty good,” I admit, loosening into his grip.
The door to the dressing room opens, and the three men walk in. My eyes automatically find his before I cast them towards the floor. The air suddenly feels too thick.
“I apologize, I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier,” he says. “I’m Elias. I’m the owner of Headstone.”
My jaw just about hits the fucking floor.
Of course he is. The way he effortlessly controls the room, the way everyone’s spines stiffened—I’m an idiot for not putting the clues together.
And of course, my rotten fucking luck that the one guy who’s made me feel anything could now technically be my boss if this audition is a success. Great going, Kat.
“And this is Gareth, the manager of my establishments,” he continues, gesturing to the honey-blonde. “And this is Finn, my bar manager.” He gestures to the last man. “Let me be the first to congratulate you. You got the residency. I’ll have my assistant email all the details over straight away.”
All of our jaws drop to the floor.
Ryland and Luca fist-bump, and Harper wraps her arms around my neck and lets out a small cry. This is good, right? So why is the churning in my stomach not one from excitement?
My eyes lock with Elias’s. His lips curve into that devious smirk before he leaves the room.
I’m vaguely aware of the hushed screams and excitement around me, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just walked into a lion’s den.