The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men 7)

With another half-smile, he shook his head. “Forrest Gump. Funny. In that case, we’re going to play ‘Run, Daddy, Run.’ You familiar with that one?”

Was I familiar?

“Pfft.” It took everything I had not to roll my eyes. “I’m familiar with every song you guys have ever produced.”

Hart smiled. “Well, all right then.” He motioned me toward the stool. “Count us off.”

After seating myself, I took a deep breath, lifted my hands into position, and began with the ride cymbal, setting the tempo.

When I added the snare and bass drums, the guitars joined me, completely in sync with the rhythm I set. A smile spread across my face, relief ballooning inside me until I was ingesting my excitement with each breath.

Even if I ended up totally bombing this audition, I was here, right now, living my dream. I was jamming with Non-Castrato. For a minute, I forgot what jerks they were and that I was supposed to hate them.

It was euphoria.

Forcing my lungs to function, I exhaled and sucked in more air. By the time Hart leaned in toward the microphone and began to sing, I already had an adrenaline buzz going, but the sound of his voice sent another spike through me. There was just something about the way he sang. Made me wet in the panties every time.

Yeah, it seemed all kinds of wrong to soak my man panties with girlish enthusiasm, but there you had it.

The music inspired me, flowing through my bloodstream. I was actually living it, morphing into it.

Becoming one with the drum kit, I switched from the ride cymbal to the hi-hat when Hart changed from one passage to the next, giving the song a little extra punch with the added lean sound. The drummer before had never done that, but I’d always thought it would sound better. So I gave it a try.

I mean, hell, what could they do? Tell me to git again? Been there, done that.

Except the overhead ring in the room was growing slightly obnoxious. To reduce it, I yanked a hanky from my pocket without missing a beat and draped it over my knee nearest the drumhead to muffle the snare’s reverberation. I smiled as that instantly helped. Bobbing my head, I switched into overtime as Hart had instructed. His voice rose, coming to a crescendo.

Though I’d never heard one in this song before, I hit the crash cymbal when he peaked and added a strong kick to the bass drum pedal.

The other members stopped playing, and it was over. An echo of guitars, drum, and Hart’s voice continued to resonate through the room, filling it with a heaviness that made me bite the inside of my lip and hold my breath.

All three band members turned to look at me.

“You brought in the hi-hat in the middle of that second verse,” Hart finally said. His stare wasn’t exactly accusatory, but it sure as hell wasn’t reassuring either.

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so carried away, adding my personal touch quite so soon.

But it had felt so right at the time.

I gave a slow nod. “Uh, yeah. It just seemed...fitting.” Growing more nervous, I swiped the hanky from my knee to mop my damp brow, only to remember the sweat wasn’t showing on the outside of my mask.

“And the crash cymbal at the end,” Holden spoke up. “That was new.”

“Well...” I cleared my throat. “You know...I thought...why not?”

“Why not?” Galloway repeated tonelessly, shaking his head as he glanced at Hart and Holden. Then he burst out, “Shit, yeah. Why the fuck not! Christ, that was fucking awesome.”

Holden nodded, agreeing with Galloway.

I nearly peed my pants. “Really? You liked it?” Of course, they liked it. I had totally kicked ass. But to hear them actually admit it aloud... Man, you have no idea how much of a rush that gave me.

“I loved it,” Holden said. His grin was goofy but proud. “I didn’t think we’d ever find anyone half as good as Rock was.”

“But goddamn, if you’re not twice as good,” Galloway exploded. “You got an ear for this shit, Sticks. A fucking brilliant ear.”

Thank God for my mask; I was blushing so hard my true face had to be tomato red right now. Glad I could look cool and collected, I lifted my eyebrows at Asher Hart, who had yet to comment.

Narrowing his eyes as if he didn’t trust my talent and that one song had been a fluke for me, he murmured, “Let’s try ‘Sweat.’ See how well you handle that one.”