Текст книги "Delayed Penalty"

Автор книги: Sophia Henry

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 4

I’ve had crushes on guys before. I obsessed over my best friend, Drew Bertucci, throughout high school. Since he was the first boy to pay me any attention, my warped mind assumed he liked me as well. When Drew made it clear that I was more like a sister to him, it crushed me (pun intended).

After my first real-life crush didn’t work out, I resumed my infatuation with fictional characters and unattainable men. It was easier knowing that I had zero chance from day one.

That’s how I was brushing off the tingles coursing under my skin that Aleksandr Varenkov had caused. A little crush. A silly infatuation with an untouchable man.

The only problem was that this wasn’t an untouchable man on a TV screen or over the radio waves. This was a man with whom I had to interact almost every day. A man who’d just flicked the puck into the opposing team’s goal and was being mobbed by his teammates against the glass in front of me. A man who, as he broke free from the group, pounded on the glass, pointed his thick glove at me, and flashed me a radiant, though semi-toothless, smile.

Aleksandr was an untouchable man I wanted to touch so badly.

I was convinced that Evgeny Orlenko could see my shaking hands and hear my racing heart, so I straightened in my seat and watched Aleksandr skate to the bench as I would any other player on the ice. Though I tried to keep an aloof appearance, I knew the flush of color spreading across my pale cheeks gave me away.

Call it paranoia, but every time Orlenko looked my way I squirmed in my seat, feeling scrutinized by his judging eyes. Of course I paid close attention to Aleksandr. As his translator, I had to be ready for the question-and-answer session with the media afterward. Technically, the job required me to translate Aleksandr’s words, and that’s it. But I was going the extra mile, digging into this assignment to get it right. At least that’s how I justified keeping my eyes on him.

Who wouldn’t want to watch Aleksandr Varenkov’s deft body sail across the ice and label it “research”?

“Do you go to all of Aleksandr’s games?” I asked Orlenko, diverting my eyes from Aleksandr’s limber leg stretching to climb over the boards.

“No. I need to talk to him about some community projects after he showers. Then I’m back on the road. I have a client in Vancouver to touch base with.” He patted his chest a few times before pulling his cell phone out of the inside pocket of his navy blue suit jacket.

Come on, Orlenko, don’t talk about him showering, I thought. As a lifelong hockey-player appreciator, my brief encounters with a semi-dressed Aleksandr already had my below-the-belly-button areas buzzing like bees on speed. Thinking about him showering could push me over the edge. Or into his arms.

I glanced at Aleksandr, who was sitting on the bench talking to the guy on his left. His shoulders rose and fell and sweat trickled down his nose. He leaned over and banged his gloved hand against the boards. Just watching him made my breathing increase and my stomach tighten.

I was in way over my head, if watching him sit on a bench and breathe made my heart rate soar.

Out of all the types of Russian men that Grandpa could have assigned me to, why did it have to be a hockey player? Must remember to keep the emphasis on the player part.

Despite my prayers to no one in particular, time flew by so fast that it felt like someone was tapping my personal hourglass. When the scoreboard clock glowed with orange zeros, the Pilots had won 5–2. Aleksandr had scored two more goals in the game, acknowledging me after each. I’d wanted to crawl under the stiff blue stadium seat and blow him kisses at the same time.

–

After the game, I headed down to the locker room, happy to have Orlenko there for moral support. Aleksandr wouldn’t flirt relentlessly if his agent was there.

When we reached Aleksandr, my knees almost buckled. He’d stripped off his jersey, pads, and the blue shirt he wore underneath all that. He’d also removed his hockey pants, socks and skates, and the pads from the lower half of his body. He sat at his locker in nothing but sweat-soaked, black compression shorts clinging to his thick thighs.

Was he trying to get a rise out of me? Gauging how much sex-charged flirtation I could take? When I stopped in front of him and caught his eyes, however, I saw exhaustion.

It wasn’t about me. He’d just finished a game. I had to stop the obsessive thoughts and do the job I was here to do: Translate for a hot Russian hockey god.

“Zhenya. Auden.” He nodded at each of us before wiping his face with a thin, white towel.

“Great game, Sasha. I need to talk to you about community service before I leave for the airport. I’ll check back in an hour.” Orlenko stopped to shake hands with the guy standing at the locker to Aleksandr’s right, whom I recognized as Landon Taylor, one of the Pilots defensemen, before leaving the locker room.

“You ready for this?” Aleksandr asked, nodding his head toward the reporters flooding the locker room.

“Yep.” I threw my shoulders back and took my place next to him.

When six reporters fired off questions at once, my eyes darted from face to face, unsure of whose question I should translate first. Aleksandr nudged my arm, then pointed to a short, stocky white-haired man with circular wire-framed glasses. I exhaled a breath of relief, thankful that my client was in a helpful, rather than a snarky, mood.

“You had three goals tonight. Did you feel like you had to take control to make something happen out there?”

I translated and waited for Aleksandr to respond.

“Those glasses should have gone to the grave with that guy from the Beatles,” he said in Russian, biceps flexing as he squeezed both ends of the towel hanging around his neck.

With my gaze locked on his arms, I started translating his words without thinking, then suddenly stopped, stunned into silence when I processed what he’d said.

How could he do that to me?

I pressed my lips together, racking my brain for something generic and cliché; aka, PR acceptable.

“Everyone is doing what they can to help the team win. You want to do well because you want the team to do well,” I said, recovering well. Very well.

Aleksandr moved a hand to his mouth and coughed into his fist. The bastard was hiding a laugh.

I wanted to kick him. In the junk.

Instead, I pointed to the next reporter myself, trying to establish some sort of control. I could identify people only by their heads, since I couldn’t see their bodies in the crowd. This guy had a brown comb-over and floppy ears. I focused on the question, preparing myself in case my jackass client didn’t know when to stop his little game.

“You seemed a bit frustrated with Penner’s goal in the second. Looked like you wanted the ref to make a call.”

“You have the nicest ass I have ever seen in my life,” Aleksandr responded to my translated question, his gaze on a body part much lower than my eyes.

I glared at him before responding to the reporter. “It was a nice goal. The ref was right there. If there was a call, he would’ve made it.”

I’d never been so relieved I’d paid attention to a hockey game and was well-versed in the sport.

An older blonde woman with way too many buttons undone on her blouse to be interviewing in a locker room full of men raised her hand, and I pointed to her.

“How did you feel about having Gribov switched to your line?” she asked.

Instead of translating, I said, “Answer the fucking question or I will kick you in the balls. Then you’ll have no way to fuck her or anyone else tonight.”

When I looked up, I caught his Russian line mate, Pavel Gribov, watching me. The scowl and shake of his sweaty head gave me all the validation I needed. But I’m sure he was in on these stupid shenanigans, so I ignored him.

Aleksandr chuckled. “We have a lot of chemistry. We played together in Russia, so it was just about getting that groove back. We get along great and have confidence in each other.”

I translated word for word.

The questions went on for another twenty minutes. Aleksandr didn’t pull another translation trick on me.

After the reporters had moved on to another player, he stood up, pulled the towel from around his neck, and threw it into a bin on his way toward the showers.

“Excuse me!” I called out in Russian. He wasn’t getting away that easily. I wouldn’t start this assignment letting him believe I was a pushover.

Aleksandr turned around and took a step toward me. Despite my anger, it took every ounce of willpower to not be derailed by his godly physique. Instead, I used the fact that I could never have that body to fuel my anger.

“That was ridiculous.” I took a step toward him, narrowing the space between our bodies to a few inches, and rose to my tippy-toes. He had me by almost a foot, but my extra height gave me a feeling of power.

“I was just giving you a hard time. It was a joke.” He rolled his eyes, which incensed me.

“Don’t you realize that I can make you look like a total ass? I could’ve told all those reporters that you felt you had to take control because this team couldn’t win in a beer league without you.”

“That would’ve been shitty.”

“What you just did to me was shitty. And it was sexual harassment. I know that you don’t care because you’re Mr.”—I had no clue how to say douche bag in Russian, so I switched to English—“Douche bag. King of all Douches.” Back to Russian. “You can’t treat me like that.” I jabbed his chest with my index finger. “You might be better off declining interviews until you have enough English skills to get by. I’m not sure I want this job anymore.”

The locker room, which had been buzzing when we’d started our conversation, was silent. Not because everyone had cleared out, either. On the contrary, more players had returned to listen to us go at it. I almost felt bad about calling Aleksandr out in front of his teammates, but we’d been arguing in Russian, so most of them had no idea what we’d been saying.

Aleksandr circled his hand around my wrist and lowered my arm to my side.

“See this?” He dropped my hand to grab a chunk of hair from the top of his head. “My first day here the veteran guys got me with clippers. Shaved off hair on both sides. It was a joke. A prank. Hockey players do that to rookies. I got this haircut to prove I can roll with it. You’re gonna quit over a stupid joke?” He shook his head, letting out a faint chuckle. “Go ahead.”

Aleksandr turned around and stomped to the showers like an oversized toddler.

I swung my messenger bag over my shoulder and stalked toward the locker-room door. Absolutely humiliated.

“Hey.” Landon, one of Aleksandr’s teammates, touched my arm to stop my beeline. “You okay?”

I nodded, but a ridiculous, revealing tear escaped. I let it roll rather than draw any more attention to myself by wiping my cheek.

“Dude can be a jerk at first, but he’s not a bad guy.”

I nodded. “Tell the jerk I’ll see him on Thursday after the game.”

–

After dinner the next night, I followed Gram upstairs to her bedroom, sprawling across her floral quilt while she flicked on the television.

“Why am I such a loser?” I asked, staring at the white tiles covering the ceiling of her attic room.

“What happened?” she asked, though her eyes didn’t leave the screen. She was used to my emotional melodrama.

“Aleksandr humiliated me on my first day. He played this stupid prank where he said nonsensical things in Russian and made me figure out answers on the fly. I’m not a professional hockey translator. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Did you come up with something?”

“Well, yeah. I didn’t want to be the idiot he was trying to make me out to be. So, of course I confronted him, because that was super shitty.” I paused to see if she had caught my curse.

Gram stopped flipping through the channels. “You’re twenty years old, I know you swear.”

“I blew up and he blew up. I don’t think he’s ever going to speak to me again.”

I kept staring at the ceiling as if it held hidden answers.

“Sounds like you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Auden. He did something jerky. You told him you didn’t like it. Move on.”

Move on. Move on? Where was the protective I’m-going-to-sic-your-grandfather-on-that-jackass talk I wanted to hear right now?

“Do you think I can tell Mr. Orlenko I’m sick for Thursday’s game? Grandpa can handle it, right?” I asked, completely aware that Grandpa would never do it. I threw in a fake cough and rubbed my throat. “I think I feel a sore throat coming on.”

“Gargle with warm salt water and get into bed.” Gram continued zipping through channels, not even fazed. Evidently raising three kids before getting stuck with me had made her heartless.

“You know, Gram, it’s okay to allow me to skip work one time in my life to avoid extreme embarrassment.” I rolled onto my side and rested my head on the back of my hand.

“You know, Auden,” Gram mocked me, “it’s better to face your problems head-on. Avoiding the situation just causes more anxiety. I’ll bet you’re worrying about nothing.”

Like I had a choice. She was the one who passed on the anxiety trait. She worried about everything.

–

I didn’t attend the game on Thursday night. Instead, I listened to the radio broadcast in my car until there were only a few minutes left in the third period before I scrambled out of my car to enter the arena. I’d studied generic interview answers so I’d be prepared for anything the reporters asked, in case Aleksandr pulled another stupid translating prank.

Once inside the arena, I made the familiar trek to the dungeon, walking slowly so I arrived at the same time as the media. Making small talk with Aleksandr wasn’t high on my list. Maybe my grandma was right. Maybe I should let it go. Maybe I was making too big of a deal. I just couldn’t believe he would embarrass me on my first night translating. I knew he was a cocky jerk, but hadn’t realized he was evil.

Peering through the crowd of bodies in front of the lockers, I noticed Aleksandr and Landon laughing with the beat writer from the Detroit Times. I slid my fingers through my meticulous, straightened hair, then smoothed the front of my black sheath dress. Though the sleek dress hugged the curves of my hips and backside, it was professional. I’d even thrown a hot pink cardigan over it because it was sleeveless. The bold color gave me the burst of confidence I needed before facing whatever Aleksandr had in store for me tonight.

Landon must’ve spotted me first because he swatted Aleksandr’s shoulder and nodded my way. Aleksandr followed Landon’s prompt. Though his smile vanished, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He shifted in his seat as I approached.

Excusing myself as I slid past the group of reporters, I set my messenger bag on the floor and stood next to Aleksandr’s locker, suddenly self-conscious of the view I’d just given him after the comment about my rear end he’d made the other night.

Get over it and get home.

The media session went smoothly, with Aleksandr answering every question, and even joking around with the reporters. When we finished, I snatched my bag off the floor and followed the mob of reporters toward the doors.

“So what? You aren’t going to speak to me?” Aleksandr touched my arm just as the locker-room door swung shut in front of me. Damn.

I turned to face him. “No need to talk. All I need to do is translate.”

His eyes found mine and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “I’m sorry, Audushka.”

“It’s Auden.” I refused to let my guard down again. I’d trusted him with a piece of myself and gotten humiliated. I was done.

“Don’t be like that. I said I was sorry. What else do you want?”

“I just want to do my job and go home.”

“You’re ridiculous, Auden.” Aleksandr pounded the locker-room door with his fist, and I flinched. He spun around and trudged to the showers. Had we been in a cartoon, steam would have been pouring from his ears.

“He’s not interested,” an unfamiliar Russian voice said.

Startled, I turned to see Pilots forward Pavel Gribov standing so close that I could smell the grape sports drink on his breath. I backed away. “Excuse me?”

He slithered into my space, towering over me as he leaned close. His face gleamed, slimy with game sweat, and there was a black void where his two front teeth should have been. “He has no interest in you. If you want to tease someone’s cock, I’ve got one right here.” He grabbed his crotch, jiggling the front of his gray boxer briefs at me.

I tightened my hold on my messenger bag, shuddering as I elbowed my way past him. The interaction with him reminded me of an old saying I’d modified.

When the going gets tough, get going.

Chapter 5

“So when’s your audition?” Kristen asked, plopping onto the couch next to me.

Kristen and Lacy came over to hang out at my grandparents’ house, which I appreciated because I still felt like a child around my grandparents, despite my age. My friends created a sense of normalcy and kept my head in a relatively mature place.

“Sorry?” I asked. Page fifty-three of my book should have been ingrained in my memory, considering the amount of time I stared at it. But instead of reading, I was analyzing Aleksandr’s aggravating shenanigans. The more I obsessed about it, the more irritated I became. If the intense, emotional, pissed-off frenzy going on in my head could manifest itself physically, I’d be covered in hives.

“When’s the singing audition with the hipster from Canada? I thought for sure you’d tell us so we could help you pick out something to wear,” Kristen explained as she leaned toward me to tuck her lower leg under her butt.

“And a song,” Lacy added, wandering into the living room with a plate piled with apple slices and graham crackers. Gram must be at work in the kitchen. It was her trademark snack to make for my friends. Throw in some hot chocolate, and I was in second grade again. So much for feeling like an adult.

“Oh, um, yeah. I haven’t called him.” I removed from my book the beer coaster on which Greg had written his number.

“I can’t believe you haven’t called him yet.” Kristen snatched the coaster out of my hand. “I’m doing it.”

“KK, don’t,” I pleaded, reaching for the coaster.

“What can it hurt?” she asked, pulling her cell phone out of her back pocket. “It’s only a tryout.”

I shrugged and looked down at my book. What would it hurt? After being cut from the soccer team, I was one kick in the gut away from shaving my head and going on a deranged Twitter rant. I should start taking drugs, so I would have something to blame it all on.

“If you don’t want me to call, I won’t,” Kristen said. She held up the coaster in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

I took a deep breath and swiveled my head between Kristen and Lacy. They would be disappointed in me if I didn’t do it, and, more important, I’d be disappointed in myself. An unfamiliar, narcissistic gnawing feeling plagued me, telling me I needed to be good at something again. I hated feeling like a disappointment.

I closed my eyes and let out my breath. “All right, go ahead.”

“You sure?” Kristen asked.

“Just do it before I change my mind.” I covered my face with my hands, refusing to watch as Kristen dialed the numbers scrawled on the coaster.

“May I speak to Greg, please?” Kristen asked, sounding confident and professional. “I’m calling on behalf of Auden Berezin. Who am I? Um, I’m her manager?” She covered the mouthpiece to conceal her laugh.

I kicked her shin with my bare foot. Lacy threw an apple slice at her.

“When can she meet you?” Kristen paused and put her finger in her free ear after waving to shut us up. “Tonight is perfect. Yes. Sure. She’ll be there. Thanks, Greg. Nice speaking with you.” Kristen flipped her phone shut. “That’s how it’s done, ladies.”

“Tonight? It’s tonight?” I asked.

“Well, if you would have called sooner, you might have had more time to prepare,” she scolded.

“So you’re her manager?” Lacy asked. “Does that mean you get a cut of what she makes?”

“Whoa.” I held my hands out in front of me. “Let’s see if I get the job before we talk about who gets cuts of what. It might pay in beer for all we know.”

“Almost as good as cash,” Kristen said. Then she clasped her hands together. “What are you gonna wear?”

“What are you going to sing?” Lacy asked.

I fell back onto the couch. “I don’t know. I need to start getting ready now.”

“Your audition isn’t until eight. Eight o’clock at his place,” Kristen told me.

I turned my head to look at her. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, that’s what he said,” Kristen answered, feigning innocence.

“Please throw another apple at her,” I told Lacy. Eight o’clock at Greg’s place. A whole new flood of nerves hit me. “I was hoping it would be more of an afternoon audition in a garage.”

“Singing for a hot man after dark,” Lacy said with a sigh. “Lucky girl.”

“He wasn’t hot,” I said.

“That’s because you love Crazy Hair,” Kristen teased.

“Speaking of him,” I began. “Turns out he’s the client that Viktor got me a job with.”

“No!” Kristen and Lacy said in unison.

“Yeah. So that was awkward.”

“Spill,” Kristen commanded.

“The jackass played a prank on me on my first night translating. Saying a ton of stuff I couldn’t tell reporters. I had to make up answers on the spot. It was super embarrassing.”

“Why would he do that?” Lacy asked.

“He said it’s what hockey players do. Prank the rookies.” Just thinking about it got me all worked up. Again.

“What did he say?” Kristen asked.

“He made fun of a reporter’s glasses and said I had a nice ass.”

“And you’re mad, why?” Kristen asked.

“Come on, KK. It was my first night on the job. He was trying to make me mess up and look like an idiot.”

When Kristen started to open her mouth, I leaned over and put my palm over it.

“Stop. Even if I do find it in my heart to forgive him, I cannot date him. He is my client. In a professional job,” I said.

Kristen licked my hand, and I recoiled, wiping it against my jeans. “You’re disgusting.”

“I just think you’re making too big a deal of it,” she said. “I’m not saying it wasn’t a jerk-off thing to do. I’m just saying it could’ve been way worse.”

“Greg told me I didn’t have stage presence.” Subject change. Kristen scrunched up her face and stuck her tongue out at me. I ignored her. “How do I get that?”

“One word. Sexy. You have to have a sexy outfit and a sexy song,” Lacy began. “And you have to sing it sexy. You have to make him want to get in your pants before the song is through. But don’t let him,” she warned. “He’s sort of like your boss, isn’t he?”

“Okay,” I said, sitting up, rolling my head from shoulder to shoulder like I was about to check into the biggest game of my life. “Ultimate sexiness and no getting in my pants. Got it. Anything else?”

Lacy burst out laughing. “You need to wear those leather pants you have. You do have a great ass.”

Guess Aleksandr had been right.

“I think black, smoky eyes with a red lip, very rock and roll!” Kristen said. “Maybe a nude lip. Red might be a bit much with the eyes.”

“Definitely red. A matte rather than a gloss. We want to make an impact, remember,” Lacy agreed.

I stopped listening, since it was clear I was out of the equation. Let these girls figure out my look. I had to come up with a song and that “stage presence.” Why wasn’t a song popping out at me? Maybe because I didn’t know what an audition song was supposed to be. I didn’t know what songs worked best with my voice. When I sang, it would be whatever I was thinking about or listening to at the time.

My friends and I discussed the outfit possibilities for over an hour before we couldn’t stand it any longer and started experimenting. After trying on what felt like a hundred different clothing ensembles, from jeans and a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt to a skintight black dress, I decided on one.

As the clock ticked closer to eight p.m., Kristen and Lacy worked feverishly, straightening my hair and applying makeup. They wanted to get done with enough time to spare for a dress rehearsal.

I didn’t recognize myself when I stepped in front of the full-length mirror hanging from my closet door. My hair fell in soft, blond waves down my back, glistening with shine serum. Kristen had done an amazing job on my thick, black-rimmed eye makeup and the deep, red lip gloss that she and Lacy decided on, but I was stunned by the outfit I had chosen.

My breasts were the focal point of my costume, having been maneuvered, taped, and squeezed into a black corset top. I had a sinking feeling that they would pop out if I hit too high a note. A pair of black leather pants that I had purchased for a Halloween costume sat low on my hips, and red patent heels completed the ensemble.

You look like a streetwalker, Gram’s voice said in my head. That had been her comment on the one occasion during high school when I’d worn brown mascara and coated my lips in sheer pink gloss instead of my normal Lunar Lime Lip Smackers.

“I can’t wear this,” I said, and began unbuttoning the pants.

Lacy slapped at my hand. “You look hot. Leave it alone. Here.” She thrust a bottle of vodka at me.

“You brought vodka?” I looked over my shoulder at the door as if my grandparents were standing there waiting to bust us.

“Stop worrying and loosen those hips,” Lacy said as I accepted the bottle.

“Hope this helps me figure out how I’m going to get out of the house in this outfit.” I tilted the bottle at my friends, scrunched my eyes shut, and took a tiny swig. “No chaser?” I handed the bottle back to Lacy.

“Buck up, Auden. Act like a lead singer.” Lacy lifted the vodka to her lips, then passed it to Kristen.

In an effort to calm my nerves, I counted sheep as I scrolled through the music library on my laptop. Kristen and Lacy were my friends; they wouldn’t let me bomb my first audition.

–

“Thanks for coming,” Greg greeted me. He held the door open until I walked through. I followed him down a flight of stairs.

“This place is amazing.” A complete music studio took up the entire basement. I immediately felt better about auditioning at Greg’s house. It wasn’t as sketchy a situation as I’d imagined.

“Yeah, my dad’s a musician, so he lets us practice here when I’m home from school.” Greg shrugged. “That’s Josh.” Greg pointed to a tall, skinny guy with short, spiky black hair sitting behind a full drum kit.

“I’m Aaron.” A short guy leaning against the far wall raised his hand. I hoped he was starting dreads, because his light brown hair clumped in various spots, like he’d twisted it that way to get dreads started. “ ’Sup, beautiful?”

“It’s Auden,” I corrected. My tone was sharp, because I wanted them to treat me as an equal, not a piece of meat.

“Alrighty then.” Greg slipped a guitar strap over his neck. “What do you need us to play?”

“Do you guys know Social Distortion? ‘Making Believe’?” I asked, looking from Greg to Josh to Aaron. Josh’s blank face and Aaron’s scowl told me they didn’t. Great, I’d pissed them off in the first two minutes.

“How the fuck are we supposed to know that?” Aaron asked. He turned to Greg. “I thought you said she was singing the Violent Femmes.”

“She can sing whatever she wants.” Greg glared at Aaron.

I tried not to let Aaron’s glower throw me off. This was all in good fun, just me stepping out of the tiny box I’d sealed myself in when I’d chosen soccer above all other interests.

“Sorry. I know it’s a random song.” I hoped the comment would help mellow the situation. Instead, it was met with more blank stares and more scowling. So far the audition was going exactly as I’d imagined. Crash and Burn Berezin at my best.

Since I’d never auditioned before, I had a difficult time keeping my pitch while singing a cappella and remembering to have some sort of stage presence. I went with what came to me, and hoped that nodding my head and rapping my hand against my thigh with the beat impressed them.

When I finished, I looked up through the thick, fake eyelashes that Lacy had glued to my lash line. None of the guys spoke. Josh had moved to the edge of his stool and crossed his arms over his chest. Greg and Aaron stood off to the side, observing, I guess. Nerves pulsed through me as the silence persisted.

“That was fucking wicked!” Josh yelled, jumping off his stool. “Where did you say you found her? Karaoke at O’Callahan’s?”

I fastened the microphone back into the stand and let them talk like I wasn’t even in the room.

“Sing another,” Aaron demanded, challenging me without looking up. He was standing as far away as possible.

“Sure,” I said, pausing a moment before breaking into “I’ll Stand by You.” It was one of my favorite songs, plus it was a believable ballad to accompany my rocker-chic gear.

Greg joined in first, strumming along with my lyrics. After a minute Josh jumped in, too. Pulling the microphone from the stand, I approached Aaron, like a cheetah stalking her annoyed prey. I touched his shoulder, but he shrugged me off. When I started serenading him using ridiculous, exaggerated hand and arm movements, his lips curved into a smile.

“You’re mental,” he said. I didn’t even try to deny it.

“All right, we’ve heard enough,” Greg said, flipping a switch that caused the microphone to go out. I walked back to the microphone stand grinning. Humor could break almost anyone down.

“So what did you think?” I asked.

“You’ve got a great voice. You’re obviously hot,” Greg said, before his eyes settled on the floor. “We’re considering you.”

“Are you considering many others?” I asked. Didn’t want to get my hopes up.

“We got nothing,” Josh said. Though it sounded more like “Me mot mutten” because he was flicking a lighter at the cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth.

“Dude! You can’t smoke in here,” Greg told him. Josh rolled his eyes but lowered the lighter and got up from his stool.

“I appreciate you guys letting me audition.” I started toward the stairs, but then stopped and turned around before my foot hit the first step. “So, um, when should I expect to hear from you?”

“When you come back on Wednesday for rehearsal,” Greg said.

“Seriously?” I asked.

“After our old singer left, we ran ads in the Central State Post and on the campus radio station. A few people tried out, but no one with pipes like yours. Can’t believe you’ve never sung before,” Greg said, shaking his head.