“Uh, hey,” she said, wide pupils flicking between all of us one by one. “I'm here to audition—I guess that's obvious, though.” Pointedly, she tugged the strap of her instrument's case.
Porter shot me a glance, then leaned forward over the table where we were all seated. The room was small enough that the woman wasn't more than four or five arms away. “What's your name?”
“Lola,” she said, unclasping the case on the floor. The guitar inside was violet, a Fender Stratocaster that she slipped out, and on, with casual familiarity. For a second she looked around like she was lost.
Colt read her movements, standing up and plugging the guitar into the nearby amp. “You been playing a while?” he asked.
She shrugged, fingers gliding over the guitar pegs, tweaking them easily. I'd been slouching since this fiasco began; her first strum as she tuned made me sit up straighter. “I guess so. I've been playing since I was little, my brother taught me a lot.”
“Yeah?” Colt asked, dropping back beside me. His face was indulgent; wistful. “I learned from my brother, too. Alright, you must know a song or two of ours. Or I hope so, if you're planning to join us on stage. You have a preference on what you wanna play?”
The young woman looked my way, fixing me with a nervous smile. “Actually,” Lola said, “I know all of your songs. Do you guys want to pick?”
I felt everyone looking at me, but I was busy staring Lola down. It was a bold claim, saying she knew all our songs. Encouraging, but big talk doesn't cut it here.
“Alright,” Colt said, eyes narrowing into slits. I suspected he was becoming as curious as me about the girl. “Guess that makes it easy. How about you play the start of Black Grit—”
“Tuesday Left Behind.” It was with brisk intensity that I cut my drummer off. Linking my fingers, I leaned across the table. The blue in Lola's eyes swelled like a river that planned to drown me. “Play that one.”
Her lips curled, winding down into a cheeky grin. I had the funniest idea that she was toying with me—or that she knew something I didn't. “That's one of your early ones," she said.
I nodded, a scant movement. “You said you know all of them.” Is she bluffing? Coming in here and trying to impress us with some bullshit about knowing all our music?
I hated arrogant people who couldn't back up their claims. If Lola was fucking with me, I'd—what? Be disappointed? In a way, yeah, I thought with sudden confusion. There's something about her... something that I want to be real.
Lola grazed her thumb over her guitar strings. I expected her to admit she didn't know the song. It wouldn't have surprised me; it was from the first CD we'd released as a band. It was unknown, relatively unpopular. I'd given her a challenge I hadn't bothered to give anyone else.
I expected her to fail.
Her pick came down, fingers spinning over the wires to produce the first note from Tuesday Left Behind. It was clear, hanging in the air with the perfect amount of anticipation.
Then, Lola began to play.
Her eyes were closed, hiding away her deep sapphires from my seeking gaze. With perfect ease, she played the song that I had asked for. She played it as good as Johnny ever had. Far better than he'd been playing lately, really.
Lola's hands embraced her guitar's neck, gliding along to coerce it into making bits of music that sank into my ears. They burrowed inside, grinding through my skin and down to my very bones.
She was good. She was damn good.
I realized I was squeezing my thighs under the table. Shifting in place, I saw Colt and Porter both staring at me. Those were pointed looks, looks that said 'Holy shit, are you hearing this?'
I am, I'm hearing it, but I want more than just a mimic. Waving at her to stop hurt me in a funny way. I could have listened to her for hours. “That's enough, alright.”
She faltered, concern showing like a shadow on her soft jaw. The song still reverberated in my flesh. “Sorry, did I do something wrong?” she asked.
The rest of the band was eyeballing me. They were pissed I'd cut her off, but I didn't care. There was more that I wanted here. I was desperate to know if Lola was what I'd been hoping for—what I needed. Impatience clawed at me to find out fast. “You