Page 11 of Rescue

Since I’m pretty sure Louis’s head is about to explode, I turn away to plug in my guitar. Even though the band knows, from months of experience, that it’s almost always easier to just shut up and let Louis get his little speeches out of his system so we can play, we can never seem to manage it. It’s just too easy to wind Louis up. And, damn, do the boys in my band love winding him up.

“How are you feeling, Haylee?” Louis asks, appearing at my mic stand. “Voice feel good today?”

“Feels pretty good, Lou.” I try to ignore him so I can concentrate on tuning my instrument. The last thing I need before an audition—even a faux one like this—is Louis in my face, straining my nerves.

“And… everything else? Everything else feel okay?”

I look up from the guitar strings to glare at him. “Everything else? What on earth could you mean?”

He at least has the decency to look slightly ashamed of himself. But the lines on his face harden quickly. “You know what I mean.”

I shake my head in disgust. He really is an asshole. “I’m fine. Thanks so much for your concern, Lou. It’s so nice to know you have my back.”

He blows out a long breath, his face falling a little. “I do have your back. That’s what this is all about. I don’t know why the five of you seem to insist on ignoring that.”

He stomps away, earning me raised eyebrows from Layla across the room.

“Can we get started?” Louis calls from the glass-enclosed control room at the front of the space. “Remember—when the band gets here, don’t stop what you’re doing. I’ll call you when we’re ready to talk.”

“In other words,” Dylan mutters, adjusting his guitar strap, “just keep playing until the grown-ups say stop, little monkeys.”

“All right, enough of the moping,” I say, turning to my bandmates. Everyone has taken their position behind me, and I try to forget about Louis sitting on the other side of the glass. Try to forget about the fact that one of the biggest rock bands in the world is on their way at this very minute to decide whether they want us on tour with them. Try not to think about the ways this could change our career—or about how it’s my fault we’re in need of the shot of life in the first place.

“Let’s start with “Safe Shelter”, okay? We need a little work in the middle section—might as well be productive if we have to go through with this anyhow.”

“Got it, boss,” Dylan answers. The others nod, and I feel myself relax. Louis doesn’t matter. Ransom doesn’t matter. This is what’s important—myband. The music. With my back to the glass, I can pretend that the rest of it doesn’t exist.

“Count us off, Layla,” I say, nodding at her before turning back to my mic. She crashes her drumsticks together as she counts off the beat. I take a deep breath, close my eyes—and we’re off. If I felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist a minute ago, it’s nothing to the way it feels to play. My hands know the chords without any input from my brain. Dylan comes in on lead guitar, and then Lance is there on his keyboard. And behind their notes, Layla’s steady, pounding drum keeps the time while James’s bass line pulls it all together.

We sound good, I think, allowing myself one smile before I start to sing.

We get through “Safe Shelter” and three more songs before Ransom bothers to show up, twenty minutes late. Even if Louis hadn’t directed us to keep playing, I have no intention of stopping for their late asses. I’m in the zone, feeling better than I have all day now that we’re playing, and I don’t plan to let anyone—famous rock band or not—pull me out of that.

The song ends, and before Louis can call out to us, I turn to Layla. “Firefight?”

She nods, and we go right into the next song. Through the glass I can see Louis schmoozing with an older man—the famous Will Ransome, I would guess. The other guys are shaking hands with some suits in the booth, including Finn, our own A&R guy—who never even bothered to come in and sayhito us when he got to the building. Next to me, Dylan starts his guitar solo, and damn, he sounds good. He’sonright now, and I love it. I grin at him briefly before something in the booth catches my eye. The tallest Ransome kid, the drummer, I think, is laughing about something Finn said. None of them are even looking at us. None of them are listening to Dylan’s amazing guitar solo.

Suddenly, I’m pissed. Probably not a good thing when we’re only a few measures away from my part. But fuck them, seriously. I get it coming from Lou and the executives—the whole pretentious, kiss-ass thing is second nature to guys like that. But you would think that the band, at least, would be conscious of fellow musicians playing their asses off ten freaking feet away.

I step up to the microphone and open my mouth. The first verse is supposed to be pretty soft, a break after the harshness of the guitar open. But hell if I’m going to sing softly right now. I attack my guitar much harder than I’m supposed to, ripping out the chords. There’s a moment of disconnect as the band fumbles to match my intensity, but then I’m singing and who the hell cares.

I close my eyes and just let go, belting out the notes as loud as I know how. I lied to Louis before—my voice has been pretty scratchy all day, the natural consequence of staying out too late and drinking too much the night before. But it works for this sound, I think. A little raspiness never hurt anyone when they were belting their guts out.

When I open my eyes I’m pleased to see every face in the control room is watching us now. Louis looks irritated, and I grin before jumping into the chorus.

By the time we’re done, James is laughing at my side and I’m completely out of breath. And sweaty. Exactly how you want to look when you’re about to meet some serious rock stars. “The hell was that, Hay?” James asks. “I mean, I’m not complaining. You killed. But it’s not exactly the way we practiced it.”

“Sorry if I threw you off,” I say, turning to the rest of the band. They’re all wearing expressions pretty similar to James’s amusement, and I shrug. “Guess I got a little mad.”

They laugh, only cutting off when Louis’s voice filters through the sound system. He sounds polite, but I can hear the anger under the polished veneer. He’s never been a fan of us going off book. “Guys, you want to take a break? Ransom is here.”

“Like we didn’t know that,” Dylan mutters, grabbing a towel to wipe his face. “It’s a fucking glass wall, idiot.”

I grab a bottle of water and follow the rest of the band toward the sound room, which is pretty crowded with the guys from Ransom and all of the suits. As I’m wondering how in the hell they expect us to all fit in there, the tall Ransome kid I noticed laughing leaves the booth to join us in the rehearsal space.

“Hey, I’m Reed,” he says, shaking James’s hand before turning to Dylan. “That was freaking awesome, you guys.” He shakes hands with everyone, reaching me last. “Shit, you can wail,” he says, laughing as he shakes my hand. I feel a little bad for getting so pissy about his laughter a minute ago—he seems pretty genuine.

“Thanks,” I say. The other members of Ransom are filing out into the room behind him, the suits and Louis still talking to their dad in the booth. “Hey, I’m Daltrey,” the blondest one says. He doesn’t shake hands, but he grins at us.Holy crap, he’s good-looking in person,I think, automatically making eye contact with Layla. She waggles her eyebrows at me, and I stifle a laugh. “That was kick-ass,” Daltrey says to me. “Wish I could sing like that.”