Page 5

“Fuck.” Flint swung his guitar back behind his shoulder. “You just ripped the crap out of our song.”

“Yeah, I did. But you asked.” Shit. Should I have kept my mouth shut? Was it a good ripping, or was I out the door?

“Told you he was good,” Hayden hollered from the desk. Sitting beside him, Kyle and Blake gave I’m-impressed nods.

Flint flicked his finger toward my strings. “Your technique is brilliant. But what you just did was exactly what we wanted to see.” A low, reserved level of excitement hovered in his voice. “We’ve auditioned more than twenty people and you’re the first one who’s offered some improvements. Everyone else has just said they loved the track as it is. We know it’s crap and needs work. It needs flair. I’m impressed with what you just played.”

Holy shit! I placed my hand on my chest. My heart raced way too fast. “Wow. Thank you.” No one had praised my suggestions in a long time. It felt good, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. “If you want to see what else I can do, I’ll play any song you throw me at.”

“I can vouch for that,” Hayden piped up again.

I shot him a dude, shhh glare, but my grin grew wider and wider.

Cole leaned forward on the amp. As he rested his elbows on his knees, he rolled his drumsticks between his hands. “So, why us, Lewis? Why do you want to join The Flintlocks?”

I’m nearly homeless. I miss performing. I want to record a fucking album. Stability would be nice, too. But they weren’t my only motivations. I shuffled on my seat and draped my arm across the top of my bass. “I don’t just want a job. I want to be involved in the creative process. Grow and be a part of your future. I want to become one of you, feel like I truly belong, add value, and form an integral part of your family. That takes time, trust, and mutual respect. I’m prepared to work my ass off to ensure that happens. I’ve listened to all your music, and watched dozens of your performances. This is the genre I love. I dig the gritty, unique edge in your music ...and you’re all a lot better-looking than my previous band. No offence, Hayds.” I winked at him.

“None taken.” He laughed, swinging on his chair.

“Do you understand what’s on offer?” Flint rested his hand on his mic and crossed his ankles.

Holy shit! We were talking business. This was getting serious. Could they hear my heart pounding against my ribs? “I read the email. Something about milestones.”

“Yes.” Flint’s voice dropped. As he glanced at the floor, his hair fell forward, curtaining his eyes.

This must have been tough on him, on all of them, moving on from the loss of Phil. I could relate to what they were going through.

Drawing his shoulders back, Flint took a deep breath and fiddled with the strap on his guitar. “We only want to go through this process of looking for a bassist once. It’s our soul intention to find someone who wants to join us for life. But we want to ensure we find the right fit, so we’ve set a few milestones.” He held out his hand and counted on his fingers. “The first one is to record our album in New York. Anything you write or create with us will be written into our royalty agreements and our employment contract. You’ll be compensated for your time and effort in a more favorable manner than a session musician because we want to get the best out of you. The second milestone, if recording goes well, is the promotion of our first single across the US. Milestone three is the album launch and promo of two more singles. The final milestone is the world tour that kicks off in November. Each step has a bonus payment, kinda like a slice of our advance.” A subtle smile quivered across his lips as he tucked his fingers into the front pocket of his jeans. “These stages could tie you to us for the next eighteen months. If you survive them, I’d say you’ll be stuck with us for a very long time. You down with that?”

My pulse thudded with an unsteady beat. I understood the reason for the milestones. They’d want the ability to get rid of me or vice versa if we didn’t work well together. If I passed milestone one, it’d be a huge call to pack up my life and move here to LA knowing it might not last more than a couple of months. But it was a risk I was willing to take. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. I’m ready to give you my blood, sweat, and tears and put as much distance between me and the East Coast as possible.”

“Why?” Slip quirked a grin. “Who was she?”

“He, actually.” I strummed my bass, low and slow. Music was the only thing that eased the pain. “Emilio and I were together for five years, but it didn’t work out. I’ve moved on.” Well...I was trying.

“Sorry, man. That sucks.” Cole shook his head. “Five years? Fuck. I don’t keep any chick around for more than five minutes.”

“You guys got issues with me being gay?” They wouldn’t be the first, if they did.

Slip jerked his chin back. “No. None. But you’re not alone in the failed relationships department. We’ve all been there, done that. Haven’t we, bud?” Slip clutched Flint’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze. “The only thing that has come out of them are some killer hangovers and some wicked lyrics.”

“True.” Flint grinned. “But there’ll be no more breakups for me. I’ve found my girl.”

“Yeah.” Slip nodded. “Sutton’s awesome.”

Flint turned to me. The vibe radiating off him morphed from chill to electric intrigue. “But maybe fate played its hand. It’s put you on a path that led you here. I’ve never seen anyone other than Kyle play bass like that. Not even Phil was that good.”

Shit. If these guys kept it up, I’d start feeling good about myself. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. I didn’t need any more delusions. “I breathe bass.”

A smile charged across Flint’s face. He slid his hand down the neck of his guitar, struck the strings, and played, “When You Were Young” by The Killers. I joined in, matching his beat and rhythm and pace. A hum vibrated through my veins and lingered in the center of my chest. God, I loved that feeling.

Slip joined in. Cole returned to the drums. Kyle leaped from his chair at the desk and took to the keys. Hayden, a single snare. For twenty minutes, we churned out hits by The Killers. We let the music take over. This...was what I missed. This...was magic.

At the end of the fourth song, Flint called, “Okay. Enough.” Combing his fingers through his sweaty hair, he swept the long strands off his eyes. “Thatwas cool.”

Damn. He was hard to read.

“What do you think?” He glanced at the guys, then turned to Blake. “You feeling it?”