“That’s private,” I say, and my voice is firm and adamant.
She raises a brow, clearly unimpressed with my response, and I heave out a stubborn breath.
“Gage, work with me here,” she says softly. “Tell me how you feel about her.”
“I fell in love with her, okay? I fucking fell for her and she lied to me. She didn’t tell me she’d be here, just like I didn’t tell her I’d be here either. I thought we had something, but maybe I was completely wrong about that since now it feels like we never knew one goddamn thing about each other.”
I stand and stalk toward the door as emotion clogs my throat. I refuse, absolutely refuse, to get emotional in this stupid confessional even though I know that’s exactly what Kat—who is supposed to be on my side—wants. “We’re done here.”
I walk out to the big room and rejoin the conversation I was having with Jimmy Decker, a guy I know from the Vegas circuit known better by just his last name. He doesn’t have a regular gig or band, but we’ve known of each other for years through the Vegas music scene.
“What was that about?” he asks.
I purse my lips together and sigh. “Nothing,” I mutter.
Everything.
He accepts my response and keeps talking about some of the mutual musicians we know. My eyes edge over to the food room when she walks out, a short glass in her hand filled with amber liquid and ice. She beelines directly for Tyler, and I clench my fists at my sides.
Fuck this.
I need a drink, too.
I wait until a break in my conversation with Decker and tell him I’m going to grab a drink. As much as I’m enjoying our conversation, there are other people here, too. I don’t want to spend all my time talking to the one guy I already know because that’s falling into my comfort zone. There are opportunities here to network even though the people in this room are my competition.
Including her...the woman my eyes keep finding every time I glance up.
I hate that she’s talking to him. I hate that he basically asked me if she’s available.
I hate that I didn’t tell him she wasn’t.
She’s flirting with Tyler. Smiling at him. Setting her fingertips on his arm. Flipping her hair over her shoulder. Firing off all the signals.
I thought there was more there, but clearly I was wrong.
Maybe this is just what she does.
And fuck it all, I’m going to find out the truth. Right the hell now.
I stalk up to her and grab her arm. “Was this weekend all just a joke to you?” I spit at her.
She looks at my hand on her arm like it’s a nuisance, like it’s a little bug she wants to slap away.
“Look, Gage, I’m here for this competition. For no other reason. Whatever happened is in the past now.” She flattens her lips resolutely.
Her words dig and cut into my chest. It’s in the past? Fine. Let’s bury it all the way there, then. I try to come up with the one thing I really think will piss her off—even though I fully believe it’s not true and I already know it’ll make me look like an ass for even saying it. I don’t care, though. I want my words to hit her as hard as hers just hit me. “You think you can beat out the men in this room for a spot? Chicks can’t play bass.”
Her eyes light with a ferocious fire at my words, and it’s in that moment I stop seeing the innocent, sweet woman I got to know over the weekend and I see a firecracker who may actually have a shot at fitting in with a rock band.
With both hands on her hips, she squares off at me. “Did you really just say that? Because you’re wrong. And I’ll prove it when I beat you. I’ll prove it when I’m the reason you’re sent packing.”
I didn’t even notice the room had fallen silent while we screamed at each other until I hear the responses to her words.
Oh, burn!
Damn, she fucking roasted him!
Snap!
She just put me in my place in front of this entire room.
She just told me she’ll be the reason I’m kicked out of this competition in front of everyone we’re competing against.
You know what? Maybe I will be the reason she is sent packing.
Especially if I can find a way to sabotage her chances.
It shouldn’t be that hard given how well I actually did get to know her in our few days together. I was listening.
She hates tuna and tomatoes.
She can’t stand the smell of cinnamon.
She’s allergic to shellfish.
She hates butterflies—thinks they’re just bugs with bigger wings.
The first thought that hit me when I walked into the house today comes back once more: I’m not here to make friends.
I’m here to win.
CHAPTER 22: LEXI
A cheer rises up followed by clapping, and when I turn from my conversation with Tyler, I see the four current members of MFB walk into the room. We just finished our first meal together—one where I purposely chose a chair as far away from Gage as possible, and as close to Tyler as possible, if nothing else because Tyler’s cute and Gage seems to hate it when I talk to him. We’re all holding drinks in our hands, and now we’re facing off with the men running this whole thing.
I study the four guys who I could be playing with as a permanent member of their band by the end of this thing.
I have a real shot. A one in ten chance...just like everybody else in this room.
And that’s pretty dang scary.
I’m immediately able to eliminate some of the contestants just based on personality. I talked to Marshall for thirty seconds when I pegged him as way too studious for a rock band...though, to be fair, I may have been similarly pegged because of my country background. Tim, who works as a studio musician, was too timid to have an actual stage presence.
I wonder how many of the men in this room are looking at me, thinking the same thing Gage voiced earlier: Chicks can’t play bass. I wonder if they’re silently passing judgment on me either because he put that thought in their heads or because they were already thinking it.
I brush away my judgment of Marshall and Tim. What I think doesn’t matter.
What the four men standing by the fireplace think is all that matters.
I haven’t had much chance to get to know the others apart from Tyler, who has held my attention most of the evening, and, obviously, Gage, who I’m currently trying to ignore because heck if I know how to feel about the fact he’s here other than totally angry that he told Tyler we hooked up and livid that he said girls can’t play bass.
The men of MFB stop in front of the fireplace, and all attention in the room turns to them. We all clap for the four musicians who are idols to us—who are in the position we hope to be in someday, too.
“Thank you,” Dax says, holding up a hand. “I’m Dax Hunter, lead vocalist of My Favorite Band, and on behalf of these guys and myself, welcome to Rock on the Road: The Replacement War.” Hoots, hollers, and more clapping follow his introduction.
None of them look intimidated or nervous or scared at the attention, and that’s because they’re pros. They’ve been doing this for a decade.
“Thank you,” Dax says again. “I’ll let the others introduce themselves, though I think you probably know them by now.”
“Brody Jensen, drummer,” he says, waving.