THE GIRL'S GOT SECRETS (Forbidden Men #7)

1. Remy

1

Remy

One Month EarlierRocking my zebra-striped Chuck Taylors, ripped fishnet hose, blue jean miniskirt, silver-studded belt and a skintight tee featuring the band The Pretty Reckless, I readjusted my wig full of spiky blonde hair.

My toes tapped to the rhythm of the muffled music hammering through the closed door, and I let it pour through me, plugging me into the mood...until the drummer on the other side of the wall missed a beat.

Feeling the sympathy, I winced even as my heart accelerated with anticipation.

“So long, sucka.” The guy next to me chuckled as the guitars and bass inside the studio lurched to a stop, cutting the song short.

I glanced sideways at my bench companion, and he smirked my way, lifting his fist for a congratulatory bump. Since he was decked out in metal and tattoos, I figured he was competition, but ...oh well. I complied, knocking my knuckles against his as a small grin twitched across my lips.

There went one less drummer out of our way.

Picturing the ass-chewing the dude inside the auditioning room must be getting, I began a countdown, wondering how long it would take for the band to kick him out of there.

“Ten, nine, eight—” I murmured under my breath, never reaching seven because the double doors burst open, and a pissed-off guy in dreadlocks stormed into the hall.

“Fuckers,” he growled before sending a piercing scowl to the row of waiting applicants sitting on the bench against the opposite wall, all of us hoping to succeed where he had obviously failed. He gave us a derisive snort and spun away. His rampage down the hall accompanied him kicking one door and throwing his drumsticks as hard as he could toward a trash can.

“Kind of a sore loser, don’t you think?” my bench companion mused mildly as he watched the temper tantrum.

“Meh.” I shrugged. “I’ve seen my six-year-old cousin throw down more drama than that over a broken doll.”

With a smirk, he gave me an approving nod. “You’re all right, rocker chick.”

I was better than all right. But I didn’t want to scare him. I could tell by the cocky gleam in his eyes, he was certain he’d do better than I would today.

Didn’t want to crush his fragile ego, so I merely sent him a cool smile. Yeah, I was all right.

“Next,” an irritated voice called from within the auditioning room, making my heart leap into my throat.

Dios, was it my turn already?

Self-confidence plummeting, I stood on trembling legs and smoothed down the front of my skirt. Since the guy next to me had been so kind, the inner submissive in me itched to glance at him with worried eyes, seeking some kind of reassurance. But he was the competition; he didn’t want me to succeed any more than I wanted him to.

Except I just couldn’t help it. I glanced his way, biting the inside of my lip, and totally obliterated the awesome girl-power image I wanted to project. When he grinned and flashed me a thumbs-up with both hands, the boost I needed kicked me back to life.

I gave him a saucy wink and whirled away to sashay through the door, tugging my hot pink drumsticks from my back pocket as I went.

Low ceiling, dim lights, and a large open space surrounding the band in the middle of the room had me slowing to an intimidated stop as soon as the door clicked shut behind me. Only three people occupied the chamber, and none of them knew me, but I knew who each member was without even glancing at which instrument they held. Because I’d gone online to their website and done my homework.

I had only actually seen them play live once, at some Day in the Park event where all the local bands had come together to show off their talent at the Memorial Park’s pavilion. And they’d been good. But the best part: Fisher, my ex-fiancé—though not ex at the time—had hated them. Absolutely despised them. Probably because he’d been pea green with jealousy. Non-Castrato had better sound, more talented musicians, and a way hotter lead singer than his band. More fans too.

Back then, I’d loyally supported Fisher, telling him his band Fish ’N’ d***s was so much better than Non-Castrato...even though they totally weren’t. In reality, I’d been mesmerized, unable to look away the entire time Non-Castrato had played.

The beat, the words, the awesome guitar riffs had moved through me with an almost unnatural fascination. I’d been waiting with Fisher and his boys behind stage because they were set to go on next, so I’d had a lousy side and kind of behind view of Non-Castrato’s performance. But still...it had kicked ass.

After Fisher betrayed me months later and broke my heart, my trust, as well as my freaking iPod—the ass—I’d made sure to buy every song Non-Castrato had recorded, mostly as a kind of f**k-you to the man I now despised.

But the strangest thing happened after I listened to about their fourth song. I actually fell in love with their music. All of their music. Every single piece.

When I’d heard they were looking for a new drummer, it had felt like providence. I loved their songs, I loved their style, I loved how so many of their lyrics resonated with me, deep in my soul. I’d always wanted to be the drummer in a band. But most of all, I needed something to shove in my ex-fiancé’s face with a big fat, “Ha! I’m in a better, more popular, way more talented band than you are! Suck on that, asshole.”

And this was my golden chance to accomplish everything I wanted.

“Uh...can we help you?” The guy with a six-inch Mohawk in his orange hair asked. He was the bassist, Billy Galloway. The crazy bastard went balls to the wall every time he was on stage. He was the one who gave Non-Castrato their wild reputation because he liked to flash his junk at screaming lady fans...or so I’d read online.

I cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah. I’m here to audition.” When all three of them just blinked, I shuffled my feet and cleared my throat again. “Umm...for the drummer’s position.”

Hello? Why else did they think I was here? I even waved my drumsticks to really drive the point home, since they didn’t seem to get it yet.

Finally, Galloway snorted. “Yeah...I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

Say what?

Though the bottom of my stomach dropped out, I frowned at him in confusion. Rejection was my biggest fear, and hearing it right off the bat was worse than all those hours of dreading it out in the hall put together.

When no one cracked a smile and told me they were just joking, I shook my head, puzzled. “Excuse me?”

Galloway leaned forward slightly as he pointed toward the door. “We don’t want you. So, git.”

Git?

I glanced toward the other two members of the band.

The rhythm guitarist, Heath Holden, was the most nondescript. He didn’t dress harsh, act rough, or pretty much talk...at all. The only extreme things about him were the tattoos he had racing up each massive bare arm along with the badass biker beard he was growing. He didn’t seem like he had much of a personality, if you wanted my opinion. But, man, he could play a wicked lick whenever the occasion called for it.

As my gaze skimmed over him, the tops of his cheeks brightened and he suddenly turned busy, refusing to make eye contact as he concentrated on digging dirt out from underneath his fingernails.

So I moved my attention to the lead singer. Asher Hart. Aside from singing all their songs, he played the guitar, piano, and he was by far the designated hottie all the girls dropped their panties for and screamed over whenever Non-Castrato stepped onstage. His brilliant voice was the reason they had any talent at all.

And, wow, had I mentioned he was unbelievably hot?

A crazy-attracted sizzle rose from my belly as I took him in. But damn, he was too gorgeous to be real. Not that I was into lead singers. I was so totally over that phase, thanks to my lousy asshole ex.

You suck, Fisher!

Still, Asher Hart was a looker. And obviously too bored to care about me in the least. Paying no attention to my penetrating stare, he unscrewed the cap off a bottle of water and took a long drink as if I was taking up too much of his precious time.

Since the douchebag bassist was the only one bothering to talk to me, I focused my attention back on Galloway. “Is this some kind of joke?” Though I wasn’t amused, I let out a harsh laugh. “You haven’t even heard me play yet.”

“Don’t have to. You’re a chick.”

I lifted my hands in a what-the-hell manner. “Wow. Congratulations. Not many people get that right on the first guess. But, yes, I am female. So what?”

“So, we don’t want a girl in our band. We’re called Non-Castrato for a reason, honey. Because we all have dicks.”

Like I cared about any of their icky d***s! These days, all d***s sucked. To me, they could go choke on...well, themselves.

Besides, castrato would’ve meant they didn’t have balls, not d***s. Idiota. Except I didn’t tell Galloway that because I was too confused.

“But I’m great,” I argued. “I’m freaking amazing.”

Hart c****d a glance my way, lifting an eyebrow as if surprised to hear such glorious self-praise.

But Galloway only shrugged, totally not giving a s**t. “Then go join an all-girl band.”

My mouth fell open. This wasn’t happening. It just...it couldn’t be happening. Here was a real, reachable chance to grasp my life’s dream, and some scrawny j******f bassist was telling me no because of my ovaries?

No f*****g way.

“I don’t want to join an all-girl band,” I argued, clenching my teeth as I glowered.

Actually, if there were any kick-ass all-girl bands within a two-hundred-mile radius, looking for a drummer, I might’ve been knocking down their doors for a position. But there weren’t. Besides, I wanted to be in Non-Castrato. Their music was my kind of music. Plus they needed a drummer, and I happened to be the best damn drummer I knew. And I wanted to show Fisher my band could out-rock his sucky, limp-d**k excuse of a band any day of the week.

Joining Non-Castrato was the perfect solution for everyone.

The only solution.

If only these fools would open their stupid, sexist, pig headed minds to see that.

“Okay, fine,” Galloway said with a self-righteous, holier-than-thou grin. “Name me one mixed-gender band that hit it big, and maybe we’ll give you a shot.”

I smirked. Game on.

“Black Eyed Peas.”

“f**k,” he muttered, not impressed as he sniffed derisively. “Those are all singers. They don’t play instruments, princess. They’re not a band.”

“All right then.” I blew out a breath to flutter the spiky white-blonde wig bangs out of my eyes and began to rattle off a new list. “Fleetwood Mac, Blondie, Jefferson Airplane, The—”

Galloway gave another snort, cutting me off. “Yeah, and the only things the chicks in those bands did was sing. We got Hart; we don’t need another f*****g singer.”

“Talking Heads,” I lifted my voice to speak over him. “Of which the chick was the bass guitarist, I believe.” I spiked a derogatory glance to the bass guitar strapped over his shoulder. “And so was the bassist in The Smashing Pumpkins and—”

“None of which were drummers.” Galloway held up a hand when I opened my mouth to argue. “The fact of the matter is, we don’t want a female. And it’s our band. Our decision. So bye-bye now, sweetie. When I need a groupie to go down on me in the bathroom after a gig, I’ll give you a call.”

I narrowed my eyes at him only to turn toward the other silent members. “Are you two lemmings just going to stand there and let this douche make all your decisions for you? Is he, like, your dictator or something?” Heavy on the d**k.

“Look, I’d listen to you,” Asher Hart finally spoke up. Dark green, penetrating eyes lifted to coast over my outfit before settling back on my face. When I only narrowed my eyes, he lifted his hands self-defensively. “Honest. But we’re picking our drummer by a unanimous vote, and you already don’t have that.” He glanced at Galloway with an irritated scowl. “Doesn’t look like you’re going to get it, either, whether he hears you play or not.”

“Nope,” Galloway said, popping the p-sound as he sent me a smug wink.

Tears threatened, but I swallowed them down as I licked my lips. With Galloway, I’d only been pissed by his foul-mouthed rejection. But for some reason, Hart’s sympathetic explanation split me in half and left me bleeding.

After a deep breath, I tried one last time. “Fine, then, Billy.” I focused all my attention on him since apparently he was the only guy I had to sway. “All I’m asking for is one shot. If you don’t like my work after that, you can tell me to kiss your ass.”

Galloway snickered. “I’d rather you kiss my d**k. And maybe deep throat it a little. Hell, honey, I’m willing to give you a taste now, if you’re thirsty.” He reached for his fly but Hart sharply told him to cut it out.

Clenching my teeth to hold back my retort, I glared at Galloway, envisioning all the ways I could murder him. None of them were pretty. Or fast.

“Which brings up another reason we shouldn’t have a girl in the group,” Holden finally put in his two cents worth, his voice soft as he winced. “With Gally around, you’d be suing us within five minutes for s****l harassment.”

I rolled my eyes. “Trust me, I can handle the little goat fucker talking smack.” I glanced at Galloway with disinterest. “As long as he keeps his hands to himself, I don’t give a s**t what he says.”

Wiggling his fingers, Galloway grinned. “Oh, but these hands like to roam, baby. Especially over a landscape like yours.”

Oh, brother.

“Galloway,” Asher bit out, his voice a warning. Then he turned to me and shook his head. “I’m sorry; this just isn’t the right place for you. I’m sure you have an amazing talent, but we need to get back to our auditions now. We kind of have a time crunch.”

My throat went dry and I once again experienced the overwhelming need to sob. But I held it in. Gritting my teeth, I glanced at all three members, who gazed back with three different expressions on each of their faces, waiting for my response.

“So you all would rather be just another rock band cliché?” I asked. “With your leather pants—” I pointed toward Galloway with a disgusted wrinkle of my nose before targeting Holden. “—tattoos and piercings, and hot lead singer man-whore.” With a scathing glance at Hart, I set my hands on my hips. “Good luck getting anywhere with that.”

Sniffing my derision, I spun around and marched toward the exit, only to pause at the door and glance back. “Oh, and maybe you should Google Karen Carpenter, Moe Tucker and Honey Lantree. All were female drummers for big time mixed-gender bands. Certainly bigger than you losers will ever be. Chinguen a su madre.”

I didn’t slam the door as the drummer who’d tried out before me had. But it obviously only took one look at my face for all the others waiting in the hall to know just how badly I had failed.

Tucking my pink drumsticks back into my hip pocket with all the dignity I could muster, I lifted my head proudly and swallowed down the pain.

My so-called pal next in line smirked. “Didn’t want a chick, did they?” The gleam in his eyes told me he’d known I wouldn’t make it all along.

I didn’t honor him with a response. Notching my chin higher, I strolled regally down the hall, out of the studio and into the dismal, cloudy day. I didn’t burst into tears until I’d gotten into my car and was pulling out of the studio’s parking lot, the defeat making me drippier and even more pissed that I had to own ovaries and so many freaking emotions.