Page 1 of From Drummer to Gamer

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.